Arsenal c-10

by Keith Douglass

From the sound of it, the Americans were continuing to dominate. Not surprising though he wished he were there himself to see it. Still, maybe that’s what getting more senior earned you going head-on head with UAVs instead of MiGs. If that was true, he was damned sure he didn’t want that next star! What would that entail taking on a satellite single-handedly? Maybe a space shuttle? Surviving near death always brought with it its own sense of giddiness.

  “I’ve got a visual,” he said, surveying the landscape ahead of him.

  The Cuban naval base was easily visible in the sunlight now pouring out from the east. Brilliant white buildings set against the lush tropical foliage, some of them partially concealed by towering palm trees. A thin line ran around the compound, undoubtedly a fence of some sort.

  Tombstone could see people moving around, the damaged building still smoldering from the strike the day before, and heavy construction equipment invading the open field that had contained the alleged missile silos.

  Farther to the west, he established a visual on his target.

  From the air, the command center looked innocuous a single-story building no different from its fellows. But according to intelligence, it burrowed deep into the earth, and the actual command center was cut off from the Potemkin village structures aboveground.

  “Home Plate, this is Tomcat Two-zero-two,” Tombstone said into his microphone. “Commencing bombing run.”

  “Stoney!” Batman snapped over the circuit. “Goddamn it, one of these days I’m going to” Tombstone cut him off. “Listen, shipmate, I don’t have time to talk right now. I’m gonna blast this bastard back to the Stone Age. As for the details well, if you come clean with me when I get back to the ship, I’ll fill you in on them.

  Otherwise, you’re permanently out of the loop.”

  “Not on the circuit,” Batman snapped. “Jesus, don’t you think that I” “I’m betting you didn’t do anything,” Tombstone interrupted again.

  “You remember a certain conversation we had in the Flag Mess two days ago? About Vietnam and what we learned from that?”

  “Yes.” Batman’s voice was wary. “You’ve been thinking about that?”

  “You bet. And I think I know how this whole thing developed and how to keep it from happening again.

  We’ll talk about that when I get back, but the priority right now is preventing Cuba from launching on the U.S. Quick now I’m almost in is there any later intel?”

  “It’s as we suspected, Stoney,” Batman said. “It’s that command center we ID’d from the photos. We believe the complete command staff is down there and they’ve got tactical control of every weapon on that island.

  If you damage them, even take out all their antennas, they’ve got no way to launch. Not unless they’ve got a remoted capability to each of their silos that we don’t know about.”

  Tombstone sighed. “If we don’t know about that for certain, we’d better assume the worst case. I want vectors back to the silos, the ones you know about. I’ll drop a few HARMs at the command center and save the five-hundred pounders for the three silos we identified. Are there any others?”

  “No new reports of them. But Stoney, you’d better hurry,” Batman said, his voice taking on a new note of urgency. “We’ve got targeting indications.”

  “On my way. Just keep the Libyans and the Cuban air power occupied to the east for a bit while I take care of business, okay?”

  “You got it.” Tombstone could hear Batman giving a series of orders to someone in the background. Finally, he came up on the circuit. “Think you can manage a little air-to-ground attack strategizing?”

  Tombstone chuckled. “After what I’ve been through today, I think I probably can. But if you try sending me up against a satellite, you can forget it.”

  0712 Local (+5 GMT)

  Fuentes Naval Base

  “All systems green,” the senior missile officer reported. He glanced up at Mendiria. They’d done this so many times as a drill surely this wasn’t the real thing? The echoes of the bombs that had exploded around him yesterday still rang in his ears. Yes, he conceded, his hands suddenly sweaty and shaky: This was it. The moment they’d been training for, the decisive point in the battle that their Libyan advisors had been coaching them for for the last two years. One strike, they’d all agreed, and the U.S. would crumble. They’d never be able to stand the political pressure at home following an attack from the Cuban mainland.

  He wished he were as certain about that as his superiors.

  He laid his hand over the launch button, and tried to stop his finger from trembling.

  0713 Local (+5 GMT)

  Tomcat 202

  As Tombstone bore in on the target, he rolled the Tomcat over and stared downward at the ground through the canopy. Land streaked by in a haze of brown and green, the colors almost indistinguishable at this speed. He watched for a few seconds, craned his head to get an accurate visual on his IP, then rolled the Tomcat back over into level flight.

  Four seconds later, he was over the command center bunker. He flipped the weapons release switch, felt the Tomcat leap up into the air as missiles left its rail, then jerked the aircraft away to the right in a hard, screaming turn.

  The two HARM missiles seemed to hang in the air.

  Suddenly, something seemed to catch their attention the invitingly enticing scent of electromagnetic radiation. Rocket motors kicked in, seeker heads aligned on the emissions, and the missiles dove in on the target.

  When they were seconds away from impact, the radiation suddenly ceased.

  No matter they were too close now, too certain of a kill, to disarm or detonate harmlessly. The two missiles exploded, the first one half a meter in front of a delicate microwave communications assembly and the second at the base of a high-frequency antenna whip.

  The microwave structure exploded into a hail of shrapnel, shredding two guards located outside the front of the command center. The destruction of the high-frequency antenna was less dramatic, but equally telling. The thirty foot whip exploded up out of the ground as though it were a javelin, arcing across the compound to clatter to the ground just outside the officers’ club. Wires that were ripped out of the ground and out of the power supply trailed around it before settling into awkward, half-described circles on the ground. The base structure sputtered once, then shorted out in a spray of sparks.

  “Commander! We’ve lost data link with the launch site.”

  The senior missile officer felt a vague trace of relief, then felt guilty over it. It was wrong to be relieved that a commander’s strategy had been foiled, entirely wrong.

  Nonetheless, if he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn he was grateful for it.

  0714 Local (+5 GMT)

  Tomcat 202

  “Come right, steady on zeroone-five,” Tomboy ordered.

  “Twenty seconds to IP.”

  The Tomcat groaned as it took the high-G turn, racing between ground targets like a car negotiating a set of orange pylons on a test track.

  The Hornet, while it would have done better on the quick turns and maneuvers required to hit the missile launcher sequentially, couldn’t have carried enough armament to take out everything. Not that and the command center as well.

  The first target was an easy one. Tombstone didn’t even bother with the rollover maneuver to take a visual sighting on his target, but simply followed Tomboy’s direction in. By now, her ESM indicator was screaming about launch indications from the farthest-away site, and that had to be the top priority. Still, he doubted there was time to take that one first and then come back for the others. No, they would do them in sequence, the way they’d planned.

  The first five-hundred-pound bomb hung up on launch.

  Tombstone swore, dropped the Tomcat down into a hard dive, then jerked it up. As the Tomcat pulled up violently, he toggled the launch button again. The sudden change in force vectors shook the bomb loose from the rack and sent it hurtling toward its intended target. The decrease in wei
ght increased the Tomcat’s angle of attack. The massive aircraft stuttered for a moment, momentarily approaching stall speed, then grabbed hard at the air for lift.

  “Now, due north, Stoney,” Tomboy coached. “Longer this time. Thirty seconds. Counting now ” Her quiet voice ticked off the moments.

  This time the five-hundred-pound bomb fell smoothly away from the Tomcat. Again, the shudder as its weight left the fuselage, the sudden extra lift and speed he felt take the aircraft afterward.

  “Fish in a barrel,” Tombstone said cheerfully. “What’s that last vector?”

  “Zero-eight-zero, the last one.” Tomboy glanced down at her ESM indicator. “And Tombstone it might be a good idea if we hurry.”

  Tombstone slammed the Tomcat into afterburner again, taking note of his fuel status. The high-speed race in, the battle with the UAV, and carrying a full load of heavy weapons onto target had taken their toll.

  The Tomcat was sucking down fuel like a Hornet. Much more of this, and he’d be lucky to make it back to the boat. He switched his circuit over to tactical. “Batman, get some gas in the air. I think I’m gonna need it.”

  “Already there, buddy.” Batman chuckled. “You think I’d forget how you abuse the afterburner?”

  “Tell him to expect me in ten mikes,” Tombstone said.

  “I’m going to need to make it on the first approach.”

  “Five seconds.” Tomboy’s voice sounded relieved. “Stoney, it’s the last one. Let’s make it a good one.”

  This time. Tombstone rolled over inverted for another look at the target. Smoke and fumes were boiling away from the hole in the ground, indicating that launch preparations were under way. There was not a person in sight they’d all taken cover, not wanting to be exposed to the poisonous fumes and gases generated by a launch. Even more important, if there were an accident no one would have any chance of surviving a misfire by a nuclear weapon on the ground.

  Not that they’d survive what he was about to do if they were anywhere in the vicinity. He rolled back into level flight, bore in for the last five seconds, then jerked the Tomcat up sharply as he released the final bomb. The motion of the aircraft, coupled with the weight of the bomb, acted like a slingshot, lofting the weapon through the air and toward the launchers.

  He peeled out in a hard starboard turn, taking a quick glance back at the bomb. It was still in the air, now descending, smack-dead on target. He watched it go, occasionally glancing forward to make sure his flight path was clear, and saw how deadly accurate his shot had been.

  Just as the bomb approached the launch structure, a thin, poisonous gray spear emerged from the ground. It was traveling slowly, still being boosted out of the silo by compressed gas in a small igniter rocket. That would soon change as the main battery kicked in, sending it arcing toward the mainland.

  The deadly javelin was halfway out of the ground when the five-hundred-pound bomb hit. It landed immediately next to the missile, instantly crushing one wall of the silo.

  The silo collapsed, pinching the missile at its waist and holding it in position. Tombstone saw the silo shudder, then break in half. Its forward portion had not even hit the ground when the area erupted in an orange fireball.

  Tombstone jinked the Tomcat away from the scene, satisfied. Three up, three down.

  “Good shooting, Stoney,” Tomboy said. “Glad I came along for the ride.”

  “I’m glad you did, too, love,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t have had you miss it for the world.”

  “How about we grab a quick drink and buster back to the carrier?”

  Tomboy suggested.

  “Next stop, Texaco,” Tombstone said. He felt his spirits lift with the Tomcat as they rose into the air.

  07:15 Local (+5 GMT)

  Washington, D.C.

  “That’s it, then.” Senator Dailey’s voice sounded relieved.

  “At least until next time.” He turned to the admiral standing next to him. “What about you, Keith? I’m not going to forget what you did here today.”

  Admiral Keith Loggins shook his head. “I was stupid, criminally stupid.” He glanced up at the senator. “Ambition, personal power I forgot the oath that I took so long ago to protect this country. Those things … well, maybe that’s okay in your world. Senator no disrespect intended, sir.

  But for us there’s got to be a higher purpose in life. We’re here to prevent wars, not start them. If we let personalities get in the way of that, let our own personal ambition override our sound operational thought, then we deserve what we get.” He looked back toward the console from which Senator Williams had launched the weapon. “You understand that. He never would have.”

  “Maybe our worlds aren’t all that different, Keith,” the senator said.

  “Or at least, they shouldn’t be. If you’ve got a moment during the next few days, I’d like to spend some time talking about what happened.

  Maybe we can work out some ways to avoid its happening again, some approaches toward preventing the command and control structure from getting in the way of the operational commander. I think we’ve both learned a lesson out of this one.”

  “I’d like that. Senator, although how much longer I’ll be in the service I couldn’t say.” The admiral shrugged, then felt a weight lift off his shoulders. “It might be time to retire.

  Hell, three stars is enough for any man, don’t you think?

  And Pamela well, it might be fun to spend some time alone with my new wife.”

  Senator Dailey looked startled. He quickly rearranged his; face into a look of congratulations. “Well, that is good news.

  When’s the big date? I will be getting an invitation, I hope?”

  Admiral Loggins smiled. “I haven’t asked her yet, Tom.

  But nowwell, I’m starting to see things in a different light. And yes, if she’ll have me, you can count on an invitation. We’d be honored by your presence.”

  The two men shook hands, the grip hard and certain. The disaster they’d diverted today had cemented their friendship.

  0718 Local (+5 GMT)

  Fulcrum 101

  Santana heard one last yelp on the tactical circuit connecting him with the Cuban naval base, and then the hissing silence that indicated the transponder on the other end was destroyed. He swore, jinked his MiG around in an impossibly tight curve, and nailed the Hornet that had been glued onto him like a leech with a withering barrage of gunfire.

  He was so close he caught a brief glimpse of the other pilot’s face, partially masked by helmet and visor, before the entire cockpit disintegrated into a scathingly hot ball of metal, flames, and flesh.

  The base! That was the key. There was no point to this losing air battle if he and his compadres didn’t buy enough time for the missiles to ripple off their launchers. The air battle was not winnable, not in the long run. There was too much firepower massed off the coast, too many fighters waiting in the wings to relieve their battle-weary front line.

  Not that it looked so injured, he had to admit. Results thus far had been startlingly disappointing. Even though they had practiced MiG on MiG for the last two years, growing increasingly efficient in pinpointing each other’s weaknesses and exploiting the high maneuverability and low wing loading factor of the MiG, they’d had no real adversary aircraft to train against. Not like the Americans, who since World War II had made it a practice to carefully maintain adversary air for the credibly trained force.

  Had he actually gone up against the Hornet one-on-one, he would have known that the wing loading factors he’d read about in Aviation Weekly were illusory. With the fuselage providing a good deal of lift, the Hornet was considerably more nimble than its specs would warrant. As with the Tomcat, the lack of credible intelligence on the performance capabilities of these two aircraft flown at the edge of their envelope by pilots who knew them like their family car was astounding.

  And meaningless. If the missiles didn’t launch …

  Santana peeled away from the
furball and put out the call over tactical. RTB return to base. If there was anything left to protect, that was their place now, not holding off this force so far away.

  0719 Local (+5 GMT)

  USS Jefferson

  “What the hell are they doing?”

  Batman grumbled. “Just when we’re winning, they want to turn tail and run.” He switched his gaze back over to the far left-hand side of the screen, where the small blip representing Tomcat 202 was just going feet wet. “At least Stoney’s out of the area.”

  But maybe he’d spoken too fast. As he watched, the gaggle of remaining Cuban fighters turned toward the southern boundary of the air base.

  The American fighters milled about in the air uncertainly for a few moments, awaiting direction from the carrier. Taking on Cuban fighters in the air was one thing chasing them back down to their home base over Cuba was another. Absent orders, they’d remain where they were.

  Batman snatched up the microphone. “Get on them!”

  Within moments, the small blue blips turned to follow the MiGs back toward Cuba. “It’s what you want to do anyway,” he muttered. He glanced at Tombstone’s aircraft symbol. The tanker was only thirty miles away, patiently circling with an anxious fighter aircraft. If he had any sense of how his shipmate flew, Stoney would be sucking fumes in another twenty minutes. Batman always did like the afterburner.

  “Stoney, you’ve got a load of Cuban MiGs inbound on your nine o’clock.

  They’re at altitude, and the rest of the wing’s giving chase. You might want to vector to avoid them until you can tank.” Batman knew how much Tombstone would hate doing that, but it was the only sensible thing to do under the circumstances.

  0720 Local (+5 GMT)

  Tomcat 202

  “Nothing to come home to, boys,” Tombstone said to the incoming MiGs.

  “Nothing at all. You might as well park those puppies on the tarmac for all the good they’re gonna do from here on out.”

  ‘Tombstone, there’s one out in front of that pack,” Tomboy’s worried voice reported. “He’s got a big lead on the Hornets and Tomcats Stoney, he’s gonna be here before they are.”