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
anti-air 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.
0305 Local (+5 GMT) Combat Direction Center (CDC), USS Jefferson 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.”