“Shore,” Sikes said finally. He pointed forward in the fog.
Barely discernible was the dark outline of land. The SEALs made their
final preparations for disembarking, careful to keep metal from
hammering against metal and alerting a randomly patrolling sentry.
The boat ground ashore with a harsh rasp, small pebbles and rocks
digging into the thick rubber bottom. Minutes later, the boat was
dragged out of the water and safely concealed under a clump of brush in
a small grove of trees.
The eight SEALs broke into two teams of four, the first headed for what
satellite imagery showed as the new construction area. The second
group slanted away from them toward the highly fortified encampment
that intelligence specialists suspected contained the captive pilot.
They would meet back here in two hours, with or without the pilot and
with or without the information they were after.
0320 Local (+5 GMT) Fifty Miles North of Cuba The insistent beeping of
the ALR-45 radar warning and control system shattered the silence of
the cockpit. Gator moved quickly to silence the alarm, then called out
the identification. “MiG just watching.”
Bird Dog swore quietly. At this range, the MiG could be on top of them
in ten minutes. His orders were to avoid an actual confrontation with
any Cuban aircraft. It ate at his gut to have to run, but if he
allowed the Cuban to approach them, the other pilot would quickly see
through their deception. Still, to let the Cubans think that the mere
presence of this MiG could make the Americans turn and run was
distinctly distasteful.
“Bird Dog, get us the hell out of here,” Gator ordered.
“We could have some fun with him,” Bird Dog suggested. He held the
Tomcat steady and level.
“I mean it. You know what our orders are.” The RIO’s voice notched up
two notes on the octave. “There’s no point in being a diversion if we
blow it the second they come out to take a look.”
“But what would be a more realistic deception than to go toward the
MiG? The rest of the flight can turn tail and run, but the presence of
one aircraft lingering around here is bound to get ’em interested.
Besides, there’s only one launching, right?”
“As far as I can tell,” the RIO admitted grudgingly. “This is one of
your worst ideas ever.”
Bird Dog reached forward and flipped off the radios.
“Jefferson will see what we’re doing,” he continued blithely.
“If they want us to RTB return to base they’ll let us know.”
“Not with the radios off.”
“Who says the radios are off? Communications problems are not unknown
in the Tomcat, you know.” He could hear the RIO’s disgusted sigh over
the ICS-the interior communications system.
“You’re going to do this no matter what I say, aren’t you?” Gator said
finally. “To hell with your career, my career let’s give it all up so
you can play grab-ass with the Cubans. You’ve been missing that ever
since we were on patrol in the Spratlys.”
“Think of it as a diversion within a diversion,” Bird Dog suggested.
“The rest of the flight turns away, and I’m the diversion that lets
them go. It makes sense perfect sense.”
“There’s only one thing wrong with this plan. A really critical
factor.” The RIO’s voice was harsh.
“What’s that?”
“Somebody forgot to tell the Cubans it’s just a diversion.
What if they take it a little more seriously than that?”
0325 Local (+5 GMT) Fuentes Naval Base The SEALs slipped silently
through the vegetation, invisible in their woodland-patterned cammies
and face paint.
They moved slowly, brushing vegetation aside carefully to prevent
inadvertent rustling of leaves, watching where they placed their feet
in order to avoid twigs and branches underfoot. Not that the woodland
debris would have cracked under their feet the entire area was as
sodden, and as dark, as a rain forest.
Ahead of them, the wire-mesh perimeter fence barely reflected the
ambient light in a regular pattern. The SEALs crept up to within six
feet of it, still hidden by the underbrush.
The SEAL leader motioned to his second in command, using only hand
signals to convey his intentions. The other SEAL nodded, reached into