Islands, it meant something to have the right man in the backseat. Or
woman, he amended, one part of his mind worrying over that as another
fought to regain the tactical picture. “I’m descending now,” he
said.
Gator clicked his mike twice in acknowledgment.
From five hundred feet above the ground, the terrain was suddenly
familiar. God knows he’d studied the topography maps often enough, and
it was starting to pay off now. It was like making a run on Chocolate
Mountain in southern California, a familiar, predictable terrain.
The early morning sky suddenly lit up with fireflies. No, not
fireflies, they were “Tracers,” Bird Dog yelped. “Shit, Gator, we’re
taking antiaircraft fire!”
“Damn it. Bird Dog, don’t lose it now. That was briefed you knew
about it. Just get us in on target.”
Bird Dog fought the almost visceral urge to grab altitude and climb to
safety. At five hundred feet, he had little room for error, and less
for maneuverability. They were so close to the target point now that
any twitch off course would put ordnance on the wrong targets with his
luck, probably a hospital or orphanage, more grist for the news media
to castigate the American military establishment. He gritted his
teeth, focused in on the terrain, and pressed on. Another seventy
seconds until he could climb to safety.
Unexpectedly, he thought of Callie. His relationship was fucked up,
but at least he’d do something right something he was trained to do,
something he’d practiced millions of times. And there was no chance
the Cubans would send him a Dear John letter over this attack.
0456 Local (+5 GMT) Fuentes Naval Base “Those are ours,” Sikes said,
pointing up to the sky. “You can tell by the Tomcat engine.”
Huerta nodded. “Are we clear?”
Sikes shrugged. “I don’t know. It depends on how accurate they
are.”
They’d left the Fuentes Naval Base perimeter the same way they’d come
in, dragging Pamela Drake through the hole in the perimeter fence.
Suddenly, she’d seemed convinced of her own immortality, and had
actually argued that she should remain in the compound during the air
attack on the base. He shook his head. Women and reporters. No sense
at all.
“Let’s put a little more space between us and the IP,” he ordered. “I
want to be on the beach in five minutes.” He turned to the Marine
Corps pilot. “Think you can keep up?” he asked, deliberately ignoring
Pamela Drake.
The Marine major seemed to swell slightly. “I’m a Marine. You wanna
race me to the beach?”
Sikes shook his head. “No, the real question is this how well can you
swim?”
0457 Local (+5 GMT) Tomcat 201
“Twenty seconds,” Gator said. “Almost there. Bird Dog we’re almost
in.” The backseater sounded like a football coach calling a routine
play. “And hurry up!” The RIO’s voice took on a new note of
urgency.
“We’ve got company.”
Bird Dog’s head snapped up. He’d been staring down at the terrain,
tensing himself for the moment that he would release the
five-hundred-pound bombs. “Where? And who?”
“Dead ahead. Ten miles. Looks like more it is. MiGs, from the
radar.
Bird Dog, we can make it. Hold steady on this course, dump the bombs,
then we’ll take care of the MiGs.” Gator’s voice was insistently
urgent.
“How many?”
“You don’t wanna know.”
“How many!” Bird Dog heard Gator sigh.
“About twenty so far. And the E2 says there’s a second wave behind
them. It looks like the six inbound from the east were just a
diversion.”
Bird Dog toggled his tactical circuit on. “Red Dog Might, this is Red
Dog Leader. You see it now, guys MiGs, dead ahead. We’ve got
time just enough. Dump your ordnance, then combat spread. All flight
leads acknowledge.” A quick flurry of acknowledgments followed.
“No one flinches,” Bird Dog said, a hard, deadly tone in his voice.
“We finish their base, then we finish them.”
Tuesday. 02 July 0500 Local (+5 GMT) USS Jefferson “Damn it!”
Tombstone slammed his hand down on the arm of his battle chair. “How
the hell did they get away with that? And where did all those aircraft
come from? That’s more than Cuba has in her entire inventory!”