“You aren’t going to do anything stupid out there, are you?” the skipper asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.
“Oh, no, sir,” Stiff assured the man.
So here he was, off to slay the dragon if he came out of his lair. And that goddamn Cuban fighter jock was probably still swilling free beer on the tale of the damned Yanqui who pulled up in front of him and lit his afterburners.
Actually Carlos Corrado hadn’t thought much about his aerial victory. He awoke in the early afternoon with a blinding headache and treated himself to his usual hangover regimen—a cup of coffee, a cigar, and a puke.
He felt a little better this evening but thought he should forgo food. He would eat after he flew, he decided.
The powers that be didn’t call the base today, of course, because the telephone system was hors de combat. Alas, a desk-flying colonel drove down from Havana.
“Please stay on the ground, Corrado. I would make that an order, but knowing you, you would disobey it. So I ask you, please do not fly tonight. Please do not allow yourself to be shot down. Please do not shame us.”
Carlos Corrado told the colonel where he could go and what he could do to himself when he got there.
Tonight he sat on the concrete leaning up against a nose tire of his steed, which was parked between two gutted hangars. The troops had worked all day getting the MiG-29 fueled, serviced, and armed. It was ready. Now all Corrado needed to know was where the Americans were and what they were up to. Of course there was no one to tell him.
The walls of the hangars were still standing and magnified the sounds of the sky. As he chewed on his cigar butt, Corrado could hear jets running high. The growl was deep and faint.
The planes were American, certainly, and they had fangs. If he went heedlessly blasting into the sky, his life was going to come to an abrupt, violent end.
Where were they going?
Havana? He thought they would go there last night and they never got near the place.
Of course, the headquarters colonel knew nothing. At least, he had nothing to say. Except that Corrado was a fool. Only a fool would attack the American war machine head-on, he said.
Corrado got out a match and lit the butt. He puffed, coughed, chewed on the soggy mess.
Well, hell, we’re all fools, really. Does any of this matter? And if so, to whom?
Rita Moravia settled the V-22 onto the flight deck of the United States and watched as Jake Grafton came trotting out from the island. Toad and a dozen marines carrying aircraft flares followed him. The marines had their rifles slung over their shoulders and wore their Kevlar helmets. Under the red lights shining down from the ship’s island superstructure, the shadowy procession looked like something from a dream, a vision without substance.
She felt the substance as the men trooped up the ramp in the back of the plane and the vibrations reached her through the fuselage. Soon Jake Grafton was looking over her shoulder.
“Toad says you’re okay. Now tell me the truth.”
“I’m okay, Admiral.” She turned and flashed him a grin. The bruise on her forehead was yellow and blue now.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Jake said, and strapped himself into the crew chief’s seat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was a rare summer night, with a clean, clear sky, visibility exceeding twenty miles. A series of rain showers had swept the Florida Straits earlier in the evening, cleaning out the haze and crud.
Major Jack O’Brian sat in the cockpit of his F-117 looking at the cities below as he flew down the west coast of Florida, out to sea a little so as to avoid airplanes on the airway. O’Brian had one radio tuned to his squadron’s tactical frequency, which he was merely monitoring in case the mission was scrubbed at the last minute, and on the other he listened to Miami Center. He wasn’t talking to the air traffic controller either. His transponder was off. He was cruising at 36,500 feet, 500 feet above the flight level, so he should miss any airliner that he failed to see. Of course, an airliner going under him would not see him because his plane was midnight black and the exterior position lights were off.
The stealth fighter was also invisible to the controller at Miami Center, who had his radar configured to received coded replies from transponders. Even if the controller chose to look at actual radar returns, the skin paints, he would not have seen the F-117, which had been designed to be invisible to radars at long distances.
This feature also hid the stealth fighter from the American early-warning radars that were sweeping these skies looking for outlaw aircraft that might be aloft in the night, such as drug smugglers. And in just a few minutes it would hide it from Cuban radars probing the sky over the Florida Straits. If there were any.
Completely unseen, a black ghost flitting through the night, Jack O’Brian’s F-117 passed Tampa Bay and continued south toward Key West. It was flying at Mach .72 to conserve fuel. The fighter had tanked over Tallahassee and would tank again in just a few minutes over two hours near Tampa. But first, a little jaunt to Havana.
Navigation was by global positioning system, GPS. The pilot had entered the coordinates of his destination into the computer before he even started the engines of his airplane, and now the computer and autopilot were taking him there. All he had to do was monitor the system, make sure everything functioned as it was designed to.
O’Brian sucked on his oxygen mask, reached under it to scratch his nose, readjusted his flight gloves, and generally fidgeted around in his seat. He was nervous—who wouldn’t be?—but quite confident. After all, there was very little danger as long as the aircraft’s systems continued to work properly. The craft truly was invisible at night. Of course it did have a small infrared signature and could be seen by an enemy searching the skies with infrared detectors, but there was no reason to suspect the Cubans were doing any such thing.
Barring a freak accident, like getting hit by a random unaimed artillery shell or having a midair with a civilian plane, the Cubans would never know the F-117 had even been around. Certainly they would never see it on radar or with the naked eye.
The Cubans might get. wise when and if he dropped some bombs, but even so, there was nothing they could do about an invisible bomber.
The biggest risk, Jack O’Brian decided, was having a midair with one of the other three F-117s that were out here prowling around.
The second plane was running twenty miles back in trail, a thousand feet above this one, and the others an equal distance up and back, all with their own hard altitudes. Jack glanced again at his altimeter, just to be sure.
Key West came into view on schedule, a bit off to his left. The lights of the other Keys looked like a handful of pearls flung into the blackness of the night.
Then Key West lay behind and the lights of Havana appeared ahead. Jack O’Brian reduced power and set up a descent.
Angel One, the helicopter from United States, landed in the cane across the road from Dona Maria Sedano’s house. Ocho got out of the chopper and walked across the road toward the house. Tommy Carmellini trailed along behind him.
Mercedes was standing on the porch as Ocho walked up. They launched themselves at each other, hugged fiercely. Mercedes didn’t even glance at Carmellini, who was dressed in a civilian shirt and trousers but had a pistol strapped to his waist.
Mercedes kept her arm around Ocho, took him into the house where his mother was sitting in a chair.
Carmellini sat on the porch, watched the occasional car and truck go by. The vehicles slowed, their passengers gawking at the idling helo, but they didn’t stop.
Soon Ocho came outside with Mercedes. She had the videotape in her hand. Ocho introduced Carmellini.
“If the videotape is to have maximum effect, it should be aired immediately,” Carmellini told Mercedes, who held the tape tightly with both hands.
“We are going to get Hector out of prison,” Ocho said, anxious to explain. “We could take you to Havana television and leave you, if you wish.”
Jake Grafton used an infrared viewing scope to examine the streets of Havana. He was sitting in the copilot’s seat of the V-22 Osprey, which Rita had racked over in a right bank, orbiting the downtown. The city was well lit—not as well lit as an American city, but Almost The central core of the city was dark—the electrical power had yet to be restored.
The area around the University of Havana seemed deserted. No tanks, no armored personnel carriers, no barricades, apparently no troops. The streets looked empty.
Strange.
Or maybe not so strange. Maybe the lab was empty, the viruses moved to God knows where.
Everyone in Cuba seemed to be in the streets around La Cabana Prison; at least a hundred thousand people, Jake estimated. Bonfires burned in the streets near the prison, huge fires that appeared as bright spots of light on the infrared viewing scope.
He looked for the antiaircraft guns which he knew were there. He found them, but at this altitude he couldn’t see people around them. “Go lower,” he told Rita. “Two thousand feet.”
Still circling to the right, she eased the power and let the Osprey descend.
Jake turned his attention to the prison, an island of darkness on the edge of the stricken city center. The main gate was an opening in a high masonry wall that surrounded the huge old stone fortress. The gate seemed to be closed, but at this altitude and angle, it was difficult to be sure. Immediately behind the gate sat a tank—Jake had seen enough of those planforms to be absolutely certain. Two more tanks sat in the courtyard … and some automobiles. Jake adjusted the magnification on the infrared viewer. Now he could see individuals, walking, standing in knots, talking through the fence—yes, the main gate was closed.
Two antiaircraft batteries sat beside the prison, old Soviet four-barreled ZPUs with optical sights. They were useless against fast movers but would be hell on helicopters.
The roof of the prison was flat, and apparently empty. No. Correct that. Snipers on the corners. Damn!
Jake checked the radio to ensure he was on the proper frequency, then keyed the mike. “Angel One, this is Battlestar One, where are you?”
“Angel One’s on its way to the television station to deliver a passenger.”
“Let me know when you lift off from there.”
“Roger that, Battlestar.”
“Night Owl Four Two, call your posit.”
Jack O’Brian in the F-117 replied, “Night Owl Four Two is overhead at ten.”
“La Cabana Prison is our object of interest tonight, Four Two. I want single bombs, all to stay within the walls. Can you do that?”
“We can try, sir. You know the limitations on my equipment as well as I do.”
“Your best efforts. Lots of friendlies outside the wall. First target is the antiaircraft battery inside the prison walls on the north side. Do you see it?”
“Wait.” Seconds ticked by.
“Got it.”
“The second target is the antiaircraft battery on the south side.”
“Night Owl Four Four is on station at eleven thousand, Battlestar. Why don’t we each run one of those targets? I’ll take the north one.”
The two F-117 pilots discussed it and Jake approved
Jack O’Brian had several possible ways to drop the bombs he carried in the internal bomb bay. If he were bombing through a cloud deck or in rain or snow, he would release the unpowered weapon over the target and let it steer itself to the GPS bull’s-eye through use of a GPS receiver, a computer, and a set of canards mounted on the nose of the weapon. Tonight, since the sky was reasonably clear, he would illumine the target with a laser beam while overflying it, and let the unpowered bomb fly itself to the laser-designated bull’s-eye. If O’Brian could keep the laser beam directly on the spot he wished the bomb to hit, he should be able to achieve pinpoint, bomb-in-a-barrel accuracy.
Once again O’Brian carefully checked his electronic countermeasures panel, which was dark. The Cubans were off the air, which was comforting.
Now he adjusted the focus of the infrared camera in the nose. The display blossomed slowly, continued to change as he got closer and the grazing angle increased.
He could see the gun plainly owing to the camera’s magnification. He sweetened the crosshairs just a touch as the airplane motored sedately toward the target, still cruising at ten thousand feet, and turned on the laser designator, which was slaved to the crosshairs.
Jack O’Brian checked his watch. “Night Owl Four Two is thirty seconds from drop.”
“Four Four is a minute out”
“Don’t turn on your laser until you see my thing pop.”
“Roger.”
Armament panel set for one bomb, laser mode selected, laser designator on, master armament switch on, steady on the run-in heading, autopilot engaged, crosshairs steady on the target—no drift—system into Attack. A tone sounded in his ears and was broadcast over the radio on the tactical frequency. O’Brian knew that several people were listening for that tone, including the pilot of the other F-117 Night Owl Four Four, Judy Kwiatkowski.
He watched for unexpected wind drift. Not much tonight—what little wind there was was well within the capability of the bomb to handle.
Counting down, the second hand on the clock on the instrument panel ticking … The release marker marched down and he felt the thump as the bomb bay doors snapped open. Immediately thereafter the bomb was released, the tone stopped, then the doors closed again.
With the bomb in the air, it was essential that the crosshairs on the laser designator stay precisely on the target because the bomb was guiding itself toward this spot of invisible light.
He took manual control of the crosshairs, kept them right on the artillery piece beside the old fortress.
The aspect angle of the target was changing, of course, as the airplane flew over it and beyond. Now it was behind the plane, the crosshairs right on the target.
Then, suddenly, the antiaircraft artillery piece disappeared in a flash as the five-hundred-pound bomb struck it dead center.
Thirty seconds later the gun on the south side of the building was hit by Judy Kwiatkowski’s weapon.
“Very good, Night Owls,” Battlestar said. “The next target is the tank nearest to the main gate. I think one bomb will discourage the tankers. Four Four, I want you to bomb the main gate. Tell me if you see it.”
“Four Four has the target”
“How long until the weapons hit?”
“Give us ten minutes to go out and make another run.”
“Ten minutes will do fine,” Jake Grafton said, then turned to Rita.
“After the bombs hit the tanks and main gate, I want you to land on the roof. The guys in back will go out shooting and take care of the snipers. Let me go talk to Eckhardt and Toad.” Both officers were riding in the back of the Osprey with the grunts.
Jake unstrapped and got out of the copilot’s seat. In a moment Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt climbed into the seat and used the infrared scope. “See the snipers?” the admiral asked. “I want you and your people to shoot them or capture them, whatever.”
“Yes, sir.” The colonel got out of the seat.
“Ten minutes, Rita. Start your clock.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Rita said, and began figuring the best way to approach the prison.
A man from the control tower ran to find Carlos Corrado and tell him that American aircraft were over Havana. The people in the tower heard the news on short-wave radio from headquarters.
“Havana.”
Corrado threw away his cigar butt and got into his flying gear.
Five minutes later he was taxiing. He didn’t stop at the end of the runway to check the systems or controls, but added power and stroked the burners. The big fighter responded like a thoroughbred race horse and lifted off after a
short run.
Of course he left his radar off.
Still, the crew of the U.S. Air Force E-3 Sentry over the Isle of Pines picked up a skin-paint return of the MiG almost immediately.
“Showtime One Oh Two, we got a bogey lifting off Cienfuegos, looks like he’s on his way to Havana on the deck. Try to intercept. Over.”
Stiff Hardwick had been airborne for an hour and ten minutes. The recovery aboard United States would begin in exactly thirty-five minutes. This bogey was on the deck using fuel at a prodigious rate, and when Stiff came swooping down from 30,000 feet his fuel consumption would also go through the roof. Fuel would be tight. Very tight. If he had to stroke the throttles to drop this turkey, he was going to need a tanker.
“One Oh Two will probably need a tanker.”
“Roger that. Showtime One Oh Seven—” this was Stiff’s wingman, who was orbiting a thousand feet above Stiff “—remain on station.”
“One Oh Seven aye.”
“Showtime One Oh Two is on the way,” Stiff told the E-3 controller.
“That’s the spirit,” Sailor Karnow said from the rear cockpit.
“Shut up, babe. Just do your thing and keep the crap to yourself.”
“You got it, dickwick. I’m behind you all the way.”
The helicopter landed in the street in front of the television station and Mercedes stepped out. Ocho waved as it lifted off, leaving her standing there with her hair and skirt blowing wildly, clutching the videotape.
El Ocho, alive and well! It seemed like a miracle. Truly, she had thought he was dead, lost at sea.
“I have seen the tape,” Ocho had shouted over the noise of the helicopter as they rode above the lights of Havana. “Fidel wanted Hector to lead Cuba. His opinion will sway many people.”
Yes, she nodded, fighting back tears.
“Why did you give the tape to the Americans?”
“Vargas would have taken it from me,” she replied.
Cuba Page 41
