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.
0355 Local (+5 GMT) Fuentes Naval Base 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.
0400 Local (+5 GMT) Tomcat 201
“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