“Jesus Christ!” he swore over the radio, “the bastards have launched one.”
“Lock it up, Boots,” Stiff screamed, still on the radio, although he thought he was on the intercom. “Lock it up and we’ll shoot an AMRAAM.” The acronym stood for advanced medium-range air-to-air missile.
Boots was trying. The problem was that the ballistic missile was essentially stationary in relation to the earth. It was accelerating upward, of course, but its velocity over the ground was close to zero just now. The designers of the F-14 weapons system did not envision that the crew would want to shoot missiles at stationary targets, so Boots was having his troubles.
Frustrated, he snarled at Stiff, “Go to heat, goddamnit. Shoot a ’winder at that exhaust.”
“A ’winder ain’t gonna dent that fucking thing,” Stiff replied, his logic impeccable. He was on the ICS now. “We’ll come up under it and shoot as it accelerates upward.”
“Okay! Okay!”
And that is what he did. As the missile accelerated upward, Stiff Hardwick kept his nose down, punched the burners full on and accelerated in toward the launch site, then pulled up to put the climbing, accelerating ballistic missile in front of him.
Now Boots got a radar lock.
The symbology on the HUD was alive, showing the target, the boresight angle, the drift angle … .
Stiff Hardwick lifted his thumb to fire the first AMRAAM. As he did an infrared missile from Carlos Corrado’s MiG-29 went up his right tailpipe and blew a stabilator off the F-14.
Jake Grafton heard all of it. “A missile is in the air! Just came out of silo one!” was the shout over the radio.
He picked up the red telephone, the direct satellite connection with the White House.
“Mr. President, I don’t know what happened, but apparently the Cubans have launched one.”
The president must have heard the shouts over the net the same as Jake did. His question was, “What is the target?”
Jake had the targets memorized. “It came out of silo one, sir. The target is Atlanta.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” the president said mechanically, and hung up.
When Toad Tarkington came to, the night was quiet. He was lying on cool earth, the sky above was dark … and there was a marine standing over him with his mouth moving.
He was deaf. He had lost his hearing.
Toad sat up, fell over, forced himself into a sitting position again. He ached all over, every muscle and tendon screamed in protest. But he was alive.
He got to his feet, swaying. The marine helped steady him.
The barn was right there beside him.
He pulled his pistol, staggered for the entrance.
The interior was a shambles, the stench nearly unbearable from bodies fried and seared by the exhaust of the missile.
Toad pulled boards out of the way to get to the open door that led down to the control room.
The lights were still on. Using a palm on one wall to steady himself, he descended the stair.
The old man was still sitting at the console, still wearing the tie around his wrists.
He looked at Toad dispassionately.
“You bastard,” Toad said. He said the words but he could barely hear them. “You foul, evil old man.”
A young marine who had followed Toad down the stairs grabbed the white-haired old man, shoved him toward the stairs. “Get going, you old fart! Upstairs, upstairs.”
Tarkington sagged to his knees on the floor, then stretched out. He was so tired … .
Boots VonRauenzahn pulled the ejection handle, and both he and Stiff Hardwick were launched from Showtime One Oh Nine a fraction of a second apart.
Stiff got his wits about him as he hung in his parachute harness in the night sky. He could see the ballistic missile accelerating into the sky—it was now a bright spot of light amid the stars—and he could see the burning wreckage of his Tomcat as it fluttered toward the ground.
He couldn’t see the MiG-29 that had shot him down. He could hear him though, a rumble that muffled the fading roar of the ballistic missile heading for space.
What he didn’t know was that Carlos Corrado had decided that his fuel state didn’t allow him to jab the Americans anymore this night. He was on his way back to Cienfuegos. With his radar off.
The SPY-1B radar aboard Hue City acquired the rising ballistic missile as it rose over the rim of the earth and transmitted the information by datalink to Guilford Courthouse, which picked up the missile on its own radar seconds later.
Hue City’s tactical action officer (TAO) in the Combat Control Center reached out and pushed the squawk-box button for the bridge, notifying her captain. “Sir, we have a possible ATBM threat, bearing one hundred seventy-five degrees true.” An ATBM was an antitactical ballistic missile threat.
The information from the SPY-1B radar was fed into the Aegis weapons system, which used the radar to control SM-2 missiles. The TAO waited for the computer to present the specifics of the target’s trajectory.
Her orders were to shoot down any missiles launched from Cuba over the Florida Straits. To do that, she would use the latest version of the SM-2 missile, of which her ship carried eight. Guilford Courthouse also carried eight of these weapons, which had an extraordinary envelope. They could fly as far as 300 nautical miles and as high as 400,000 feet, about 66 nautical miles.
The ballistic missile that was flying now was still climbing and accelerating. The trick was to shoot it over the Florida Straits before it got out of the SM-2 envelope.
The captain was on the squawk box. “You may fire anytime,” the old man said.
The TAO was Lieutenant (junior grade) Melinda Robinson. Her mother had wanted her to be a dancer and her father wanted her to take up law, his profession, but she chose the navy, confounding them both.
Just now she concentrated on the computer presentations on the large, 42-inch by 42-inch console in front of her.
“Two missiles,” Robinson ordered. She was tempted to fire four, but the Cubans might launch more ballistic missiles, so she couldn’t afford to run out of ammo.
“Fire one,” she said.
The SM-2 Tactical Aegis LEAP (lightweight exoatmospheric projectile) missile roared from the vertical launcher in front of the ship’s bridge in a blaze of fire.
Two seconds later a second missile roared after the first.
Guilford Courthouse also fired two missiles.
The solid fuel third-stage boosters of the SM-2 missiles lifted them through the bulk of the atmosphere, and finally separated at an altitude of 187,000 feet. The second stages ignited now, lifting the interceptor missiles higher and higher.
At 300,000 feet the second stage of the missile pitched over and ejected the nose cone of the missile, exposing the infrared sensor of the kinetic-energy kill vehicle. The motor continued to burn for another sixteen seconds, carrying the kill vehicle higher and still faster. At 370,000 feet the kill vehicle was aligned by its GPS-aided inertial unit and was ejected from the missile.
Tracking the target now at 375,000 feet of altitude, the kill vehicle homed in on the ballistic missile’s final stage at 6,000 miles per hour.
And hit it.
The second missile missed by a hundred feet, the third struck a piece of the target missile, and the fourth missed by seven feet.
“Admiral Grafton, Hue City reports the ballistic missile was destroyed over the Straits.”
Jake picked up the telephone to the White House and waited for someone to answer.
“Hue City, an Aegis cruiser, reports the Cuban missile was destroyed over the Straits.”
The president didn’t say anything, but Jake could feel his relief. When he did speak, he sounded tired. “How many warheads are still in those missiles?”
“Only one left, sir. Number four. There are no Cubans there but the marines are having trouble getting the warhead out of the missile.”
“Are you destroying the missiles when they are sanitized?”
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“Yes, sir. A magnesium flare ignited near the nose cone. The heat melts it, then finally ignites the solid fuel and causes an explosion in the silo.”
“You destroyed the warhead manufacturing facility?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All that’s left is the lab at the university?”
“That’s correct”
“I want it destroyed, Admiral.”
“There will be casualties, sir, American and Cuban. That thing is smack in the middle of downtown Havana.”
“I understand that. Destroy it.”
“We’ll do it tomorrow night,” Jake Grafton said.
Toad Tarkington found Rita putting a bandage on her copilot, Crash Wade, who had smashed his face into the instrument panel when their Osprey crashed. Half the marines aboard had been injured, but by some miracle only two were killed. The Osprey was a total loss.
Toad put his hands on Rita’s shoulders. She turned and he saw a large goose-egg bump on her forehead, one already turning purple. One of her eyes was also black and slightly swollen.
He knelt beside her. “How’s your head?”
“I’m okay. Didn’t even knock me out.”
“And Crash?”
“The wound that’s bleeding is pulpy—I think his skull is smashed. He doesn’t seem to recognize me or anybody.”
When she had Wade’s wounds bandaged, she and Toad walked over to a tree and sat down. “Somebody said a MiG shot us down, Toad. Cannon holes all over the right engine nacelle. I couldn’t save it.”
She was so tired. When he leaned back against the tree she put her head down in his lap.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
By dawn Jake Grafton had five biological warheads locked up aboard United States; five intermediate-range ballistic missiles had been melted and burned in their silos; and every uniformed American and flyable military aircraft was out of Cuba. It had been a tight squeeze.
Over half the SuperCobra helicopters lacked the fuel to return across the Florida Straits to Key West, nor was there room for them on the decks of U. S. ships off the Cuban coast. More fuel in flexible bladders was flown in from Kearsarge. The choppers were refueled, then launched for Key West. Four of the SuperCobras had been shot down, and one had suffered so much battle damage it was unsafe to fly and had to be destroyed.
Prowlers and Hornets armed with HARM missiles continued to patrol over central Cuba all night, ready to attack any radar that came on the air. Above them F-14s cruised back and forth, ready to engage any bogey brave enough to take to the sky.
Several Cuban Army units probed gently at the marines guarding the silo sites while they prepared to withdraw, but a few bursts of machine-gun fire and mortar shells from the marines were enough to discourage further attention. The marines eventually disengaged and pulled out unmolested.
When he landed his MiG-29 at Cienfuegos, Major Carlos Corrado found that he couldn’t get fuel. Two cruise missiles had destroyed the fuel trucks and electrical pumping unit; all fueling would have to be done by hand, a slow, labor-intensive process. Disgusted, Corrado walked to the nearest bar in town, where he was a regular, and proceeded to get drunk, his usual evening routine. By dawn he was passed out in his bunk in the barracks, sleeping it off.
In Havana the next morning, Alejo Vargas summoned the senior officers of the Cuban Army, Navy, and Air Force to the presidential palace for a verbal hiding.
“Cowards, fools, traitors,” he raged, so infuriated he quivered. “We had them in the palm of our hand, and all we had to do was make a fist. A red-handed apprehension of the American pirates would have brought the applause and respect of the Cuban people. A haul of American prisoners in uniform would have given us instant credibility. This was our chance.”
“Señor Presidente, the troops would not obey. They refused to attack. When the troops refuse to obey direct orders, what would you have us do?”
“Shoot some generals,” Vargas snapped. “Shoot some colonels. Scared men fight best.”
“If we shot the generals and colonels the men would shoot us,” General Alba explained, and he meant it. “The Americans are too well equipped, too well trained, too well armed. Their firepower is overwhelming. To fight them toe-to-toe would be suicidal, and the men know that.”
Alba’s logic was unassailable. To complain now that the Cuban Army, Navy, and Air Force did not do what he, Vargas, knew they could not do was illogical and self-defeating. No military force on the planet could whip the Americans in a stand-up fight, which was precisely why he had spent the last three years developing a biological-warfare capability.
Temper tantrums will get me no place, Vargas reminded himself, and willed himself back under control. He sat down at his desk, made a gesture to the others to seat themselves.
“Gentlemen, we must move forward. I have trust and confidence in you, and I hope you have the same in me. You are of course correct—we cannot overcome the Americans militarily. We must outwit them to prevail. With your help, it still can be done.”
They sat looking at him expectantly.
“The laboratory where the biological agent for the warheads was created is in the science building of the University of Havana. Last night the Americans destroyed the warhead-manufacturing facility and our six operational ballistic missiles. All the American cruise missiles, the airplanes, the assault troops were employed to that end. Tonight the Americans will try to destroy the laboratory.”
“Why did they not attack the lab last night?” Alba asked.
“You are the military man—you tell me. Perhaps they lacked sufficient assets, perhaps they did not have political support to create massive amounts of Cuban casualties or sustain significant American casualties—I do not know. The most likely explanation is that they were afraid of inadvertently releasing biological agents. Whatever, the lab is still intact and capable of producing polio viruses in sufficient quantity to supply a weapons program. The minds directing the American military effort will not ignore that laboratory.”
“Señor Presidente, what would you have us do?”
Alejo Vargas smiled. He leaned forward in his chair and began explaining.
“Tell me what happened,” Jake Grafton said to Toad Tarkington when Toad got back aboard the carrier. The sky was gray in the east by then, and Toad was filthy and bone tired.
A stretcher team from the ship’s hospital met the Osprey on the flight deck and took Rita and Crash Wade below for examination.
Toad told his boss everything he thought he would want to know about the battle around silo one, about the missile rising, holding on to the tiny open access port, kicking off as the missile went through the barn roof, falling … .
He didn’t tell Jake that he was so scared he thought he was going to die, and he left out how he felt when they told him Rita had been shot down just in front of the barn. He didn’t mention how he felt when he realized she was alive, bruised up but alive. He didn’t have to tell him, because Jake Grafton could read all that in his face.
The admiral listened, looking very tired and sad, and said nothing. Just nodded. Then patted him on the shoulder and sent him to take a shower and get a few hours’ sleep.
The young CIA officer, Tommy Carmellini, sat in the dirty-shirt wardroom with a stony face, his jaw set. Chance was dead and he didn’t want to talk about it.
He talked about the mission when Jake Grafton asked, however, told the admiral how it had gone, assured him that all the cultures in the building had been destroyed.
“The problem is that the bastards may have cultures stashed anyplace. Vargas may have a potful under his bed, just in case.”
“Yes,” Jake Grafton said, “I understand.”
He did understand. To be absolutely certain of eradicating all the poliomyelitis virus in Cuba, he would need to burn the whole island to a cinder.
Jake went to his stateroom and tried to get a few hours’ sleep himself.
Tired as he was, sleep wouldn’t come. He tossed and turned
as he thought about the battle just ended and the one still to come. What had he learned from last night’s battle?
What could go wrong tonight?
After an hour of frustration, he took a long, hot shower. This time when he lay down he dozed off.
Two hours later he was wide awake. He put on a clean uniform and headed for his office.
Toad was already there huddled with Gil Pascal. “Rita’s okay,” he told Jake. “Crash Wade didn’t make it. Amazing, isn’t it? One dead, one just bruised.”
“Can Rita fly tonight?” Jake asked.
Tarkington swallowed hard, nodded once.
“She’s the best Osprey pilot we’ve got,” Jake said. “She’s got the flight if she wants it.”
“She’d kill me if I asked you to leave her behind.”
“She probably would, and you such a handsome young stud. What a loss to the world that would be.”
“The Osprey that is bringing the survivor from Hue City will be here in twenty minutes. I’ll bring him to your cabin.”
“Hector Sedano’s brother?”
“That’s correct, sir. And the message said he wants to go back to Cuba.”
Maximo Sedano parked his car on the pier so he wouldn’t have to carry his gear very far. Scuba tanks, wet suit, flippers, weight belt, mask, he had the whole wardrobe.
He got all that stuff aboard the boat, checked the fuel, then cast off.
The gold was in Havana Harbor; he was sure of it. He had a chart that he had laid off in grids, and he had labeled each grid with a number that reflected a probability that he thought reasonable. The area off the main shipping piers didn’t seem promising, nor did the busy areas by the fishing piers. The area off the private docks where Fidel had kept his boat seemed to Maximo to be the most likely, so that was where he would look first.
He took the boat to the center of the most promising area and anchored it.
It was inevitable that people would see him, so he had told everyone who asked that he was studying old shipwrecks in Havana Harbor. He knew enough about that subject to make it sound plausible—he could talk about the American battleship Maine and three treasure galleons that went on the rocks here in the harbor during a hurricane.
Cuba Page 39
