“The atmosphere’s lousy with the shit,” the E-2C radar intercept officer complained. “They’ve got more radars on that island, especially on top of that mountain range, than we’ve got on all the aircraft out here. Just try to get through that stuff.”
“Well, we’re going to have a little help this time. It’s not all up to the Prowlers,” the other RIO responded. “And here it comes.”
His radar screen lit up with a barrage of sharp green blips tracking rapidly to the east, then veering in mid- flight back to the west. They were traveling at four hundred knots at first, then quickly adding another hundred to reach Mach.75. “Good thing we’re up so high. We’d never see them otherwise.”
“And the Cubans aren’t going to see them until its too late, either,” the other RIO said. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his feet, trying to work a kink out of his neck.
“Nice to have somebody else doing the nasty work for a change.
Especially when it’s not the Air Force.”
“Especially not the Air Force,” the first RIO echoed.
Dealing with the Wild Weasel missions and anti radiation strikes by the Air Force always proved to be a complicated matter of coordinating communications and commands. Not that they were incompetent, mind you just different.
“Deep dive,” the first RIO announced. “And we should see … ah, yes.
There it is.” He toggled his ICS switch and called to the pilot.
“Lost contact on all missiles.”
“Roger.” The laconic tones from the aviator in the forward half of the aircraft indicated what he thought of the traditional pilot disdain for his passengers. “Can we go home now?”
“Not yet,” the RIO answered. “We still got the strike inbound, and the egress after that. Don’t worry, that rack will be waiting for you when we’re done.”
The missile streaked in over land and began comparing the terrain with the memory of its flight path stored in its fire control circuits. So far, a good match. It made one, minute course correction, then descended twenty feet to continue skimming forty feet above the gently rolling terrain.
One thousand meters from the target, it switched over to optical guidance, relaying a picture of what it saw through the nose camera back to the carrier. If necessary, the technician aboard the aircraft carrier could have made another course correction but it wasn’t. This Tomahawk knew exactly where it was going, and didn’t need any help getting there.
Seconds later, it was over. The Tomahawk burrowed through the cement, pausing for two seconds after impact before it jerked the final firing circuitry. The warhead exploded into a firestorm of high explosives inside the concrete bunker, immediately blowing out all four walls and the roof. The contents were incinerated instantly.
Six hundred feet away, Pamela Drake screamed. Huerta clamped his hand hard over her mouth and threw her to the ground, landing on top of her.
Debris rained down on him, partially blocked by the overhang of the roof they were under, but still splattering the walls above their heads. All four SEALs and their civilian guest were flat on the ground, heads tucked reflexively under their arms, waiting on the edge of life and death for the firestorm and downpour of shrapnel and debris to end.
The world went silent. Huerta shook his head, and kept his hand firmly clamped over Drake’s mouth. Temporary deafening from being close to ground zero was normal stuff for him, but he could count on the civilian to panic. He could feel her lips moving beneath his hand as she tried to scream. He clamped down tighter.
Finally, he felt her body wilt. He eased his hand off gently and spun her around to face him. Her face was pale and beaded with sweat. She opened her mouth, and he raised his hand warningly. She nodded and fell silent.
Sikes flipped his hand toward the target compound. The dog had erupted in a paroxysm of motion. Probably barking its fool head off, Sikes figured. Not that anyone was within earshot to hearthey’d all be as deaf as the SEALs were.
Still, best to put an end to this quickly before the acoustic shot wore off. Garcia lifted his pistol, sighting carefully, and nailed the dog through the skull with a nine-millimeter round. The dog dropped to the ground instantly and lay motionless.
Sikes gave the “go ahead” signal and led the way toward the small compound. The fence was partially torn from the nearby explosion, providing a convenient ingress point for the team. Huerta took the second position, his hand firmly clamped around Drake’s wrist, dragging her along.
They were inside the compound in seconds, and Garcia put another round into the lock on the door. He burst through the door and saw a large, short-haired man in a green flight suit hunkered down under his rack.
He motioned sharply at the man. “SEALs,” he said, feeling the word leave his throat but still unable to hear it except as a vibration in his bones. He hoped the other man’s hearing was better, but doubted it.
The pilot appeared stunned. He gazed at them blankly for a moment before comprehension began to dawn. He scrambled out from under the single bed and lurched to his feet.
Good. Uninjured. Sikes nodded approvingly, then spared two seconds to shake the man’s hand. It quickly turned into a hard, quick embrace.
Getting out was just as easy. Whatever remaining Cuban forces had been in the compound were significantly distracted by the destruction raining down on them. Sikes tried to remember the mission was briefed as a six- missile strike, all impacting their targets simultaneously.
If things went according to plan, there would be no more inbound missiles to jeopardize the team’s escape. Not that the SEALs should have ever been there in the first place by now, they should already have been back in their boat and headed for the carrier. Still, the Cubans didn’t know that more missiles weren’t coming. There was a ten-minute window between the Arsenal attack and first strikes by naval aircraft.
He hoped it would be enough.
“Oops. Here comes trouble.” The RIO’s voice over the ICS brought everyone back to full alert. On each screen, just at the outer edge of the detection capabilities, six small blips appeared. “Where the hell did they come from?” the RIO muttered under his breath. “It would be too good to be true if we had air superiority without a fight, don’t you think?”
The second RIO reached for his mike. “I’m going to let strike leader know, if he hasn’t already seen them on his AWG-9.”
“Intercept time?” the first RIO asked.
“About six minutes.” The second RIO left unspoken the obvious conclusion there wasn’t enough time for the inbound strike to dump weapons and disengage. They’d have to take the MiGs on while still fully loaded or dump their weaponry harmlessly in the ocean. A helluva choice to make, and one the E2C RIO was glad he didn’t have to entrust to his pilot.
Bird Dog swore softly. Why the hell couldn’t the MiGs have waited another ten minutes? By then, he’d be wings clean and at his most maneuverable. As it was, air combat maneuvering against the nimble Soviet-built fighters would be problematic, not only for the fighters but for the smaller Hornets accompanying them. And the EA-cBs carried no antiair weaponry except the HARMs. “Why didn’t we have the Arsenal neutralize that land base and airfield?” Gator asked. “I would have thought that would be the perfect mission for them.”
“You don’t understand conflict. Gator,” Bird Dog said hotly. “This is an operational air problem. This is a limited war we don’t want it spreading into a full out-and-out conflict between the United States and Cuba. See, if we conducted an attack on the other base, we’d be sending a signal that” “Maybe they don’t read sign language. Bird Dog.
Did you ever think of that? All your fancy operational art has gotten me so far is fighters inbound.” Gator sounded tired. “Okay, let’s figure out how we’re gonna get out of this one.”
“We outnumber them,” Bird Dog observed. “You got the contacts relayed by the E-2?”
“Affirmative. We definitely outnumber them, but they’re moving like greased lightning. Tight formation, good
