Almighty viewed him.
He knew what his pilot was planning on doing, and the idea frightened him almost as much as the approaching missile. Get down low, get near the churning, violent sea below them, and try to hide within the spatter of radar returns generated by the ever-changing wave structure of the surface of the ocean. It was a chancy move, but that coupled with countermeasures such as chaff and flares might be enough to distract the weapon long enough for them to get away.
“Might be.” With a regular missile, it would have been, of that he was certain. But given the extended range on this one, a range he’d never even heard hinted at during intelligence briefs, who knew what else was new? An improved seeker head? A more accurate radar capable of distinguishing between sea clutter and the sweetheart metal contact that the Tomcat would generate on its sensors? He shook his head, shuttling the fear back to some small dark compartment of his mind. He couldn’t get distracted now, when his primary task was to serve as a second pair of eyes and make sure the Tomcat stayed out of the water.
It would really suck if we lost the missile and slammed into one of the masts on the fishing boats. He frowned, knowing how close to the water Bird Dog was likely to get and how high the antennas and booms extended from some fishing boats.
A brief thought of his wife, Alicia, flitted through his mind. He allowed it to stay there for a microsecond, then compartmentalized it as well. No time for danger, no time for thoughts of love and family all that mattered was getting away, now.
Bird Dog, he had to admit, was one of the best. He’d proved it repeatedly during the Spratly Islands conflict. But this scenario, with the young pilot, slightly rusty from his tour on staff duty, playing grab-ass with a missile of unknown capabilities, was more than either of them had bargained for.
The second SEAL squad had followed the same peek-dart peek transit maneuver that the other one had, with less success. Their target was still over 150 feet away, and under the circumstances, it wasn’t likely that they’d be getting any closer.
“That’s it,” Garcia said quietly, careful to turn the s into a th sound. It was a habit born of long training, turning sibilant consonants that carried for long distances into fricative soft sounds.
“Got to be.”
The other men nodded. They were crouched down in landscaping shrubbery surrounding what appeared to be an administrative building, complete with flagpole out front and decorative bricks around the steps leading up to it. Due east from their position, a two-story cement block building without windows was surrounded by two storm fencing perimeters. The outer one was topped with razor wire.
Bright lights on tall poles cast a harsh glare down on the building and the land a hundred feet around it. They could see two armed men patrolling just inside the perimeter, displaying none of the uncertainty or clumsiness that had characterized their compatriot by the outer perimeter fence they’d already passed through. These were men with a purpose, and with the training to accomplish it. Their steps were swift and sure. They glanced continually into the darkness around them. Sikes saw night-vision goggles mounted insect like on top of one of their heads, evidently shoved back to allow him better visibility in the bright light.
The guards would still be able to see them even if the SEALs were to shoot the lights out.
Not that they would. No, marching orders for this mission were simply to ascertain the location of the prison building and bring the pilot out if possible. Shooting out the lights would put the whole camp on alert immediately, complicating not only their own egress from the compound but compromising the other team as well. They would be lucky to escape with their own lives, much less that of the pilot.
Huerta ground his teeth in frustration. The rescue mission would have to wait for the next intrusion into the camp, if then. But for now, getting the American aviator away from the Cubans was going to prove tougher than his superiors had thought.
He motioned to his team, a quick, sharp hand movement, then faded back into the shrubbery. He strained to hear them moving through the brush, and a grim smile crossed his face when nothing met his ears but silence. They were good, very good.
Unfortunately, this time, it wasn’t enough.
“Pull up! Pull up!” Gator’s voice was frantic. And about two seconds too late. He could already feel the Tomcat starting to nose up, see Bird Dog gently easing the yoke back.
Would it be in time? He hoped to hell the young fool knew what he was doing.
Gator craned his neck around to stare down at the water below them. It was now visible, since they were under the cloud cover and fog that had plagued their mission on the way in. Two thousand feet, maybe less, he decided, staring in horrified fascination at the churning wave tops whitecapped with foam. Not enough.
The Tomcat was almost in level flight now, but still descending as its inertia carried it forward. Gator stared in silent horror, knowing that nothing he could say or do could change the aerodynamic equation now being worked out between the airframe and the atmosphere. Either Bird Dog had judged it right, or he hadn’t. Either way. Gator was out of the loop.
He shut his eyes, not wanting to watch, then opened them immediately.
As soon as he quit looking, every nerve ending in his body seemed to become preternaturally alive, extending out past the skin of the aircraft to feel the warm, hungry sea below him. Better the demons he could see than those he couldn’t.
Finally, fifteen feet above the waves, the Tomcat pulled out of its steep dive. Gator felt a slight shudder, and wondered if the reckless pilot in front of him had nicked the surface of the ocean with the tail of the Tomcat. Still, the reassuring roar of both engines reassured him that nothing was wrong with their propulsion. He felt relief flood him, and waited for the moment when Bird Dog would start grabbing altitude again.
It didn’t happen. The Tomcat streaked on northward, still fifteen to twenty feet above the waves. Gator remained silent, not wanting to cause the slightest distraction to the incredible concentration such low-level flying required. He stared at his radar scope, willing the missile away from them.
“Flares. Chaff.” Bird Dog’s voice was almost mechanical.
Gator automatically punched the buttons, watching in wonderment over the fact that his hands still knew what to do while his mind stared at the sea. He felt the gentle thumps on me airframe as the two countermeasure packages shot out from the undercarriage, and wondered what the hell good they would do. They were so close to the sea, both were likely to hit the water before the missile following had any chance to acquire them.
Just as the first thump shook the aircraft. Bird Dog wrenched the Tomcat into a tight roll. The countermeasures, housed on the underside of the aircraft, shot into the air, detonating one hundred feet above the water.
The ocean was now only twenty feet above his head, as sky and water reversed themselves in his perspective. He experienced a moment of vertigo and a sudden tensing in his stomach. God, puking now, upside down it would have been funny if it hadn’t been so serious.
As the last of the countermeasures left the aircraft. Bird Dog rolled the Tomcat upright again and pulled back on the yoke. Gator felt the indescribably delicious sensation of moving away from the water, watching it recede until the hundred feet above it that Bird Dog appeared to settle on felt like a vast safety margin. In other circumstances it would have been far too low for his tastes, but now it seemed like the ultimate in safety.
As the aircraft regained altitude, the hard blip of the missile reappeared on his radar screen. It was now only five hundred feet behind him, far too close for another try at countermeasures. Or maybe it wasn’t. He tried to remember the exact parameters of the countermeasures, calculated the possible maximum speed of the missile, and was still frantically thinking about it when he heard Bird Dog order another set.
Again, his fingers seemed to know what to do by themselves. He studied the scope. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the missile’s trace on the radar disappeared.
Another, more amorphous bloom popped up, and seconds later he heard an explosion behind him.
“What the hell was that?” Bird Dog said.
“You know what it was.” Inexplicably, Gator was now angry beyond all measure. “That fishing boat your low- level stunt decoyed the missile right into it.”
