“We’re not sure. Apparently he was shot in the leg with an AK-47.”
“Do you have any idea the damage an AK-47 can do?” Shanker asked, his voice low and contained.
“Unfortunately, I do. He needs to be in a hospital.”
“Can you get him out?” Seagrave asked. Butler paused. Then he shook his head. “Bloody hell,” the Englishman muttered.
“What about Brothers to the Rescue?” Shanker asked. “I heard they were flying in and out like they owned the place.”
“The FBI shut them down.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Shanker roared. “Whose side are we on?”
“Sometimes I wonder,” Butler replied.
“I can’t believe I’m so thick,” Seagrave muttered under his breath. “You want us to go get him.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.” Butler snapped open his briefcase and pulled out a chart. He spread it out on the table. “We know he’s under the care of a doctor in Camagüey. The city is quiet at the moment and appears to be held by the Guardians.”
“The Guardians are the good guys, yes?” This from Seagrave.
“We hope so,” Butler said. “But the DAAFAR has a main fighter base just outside Camagüey.”
“DAAFAR?” Shanker asked.
“Defensa Antiaérea y Fuerza Aérea,” Butler explained. “That’s the Cuban Air Force. At last report they were still loyal to Castro. But that seems to be negotiable on a daily basis.”
“Are they any good?” Seagrave asked.
“Apparently not. We have an unconfirmed report that Langston downed a MiG on the way out.”
The two men stared at the general in disbelief. Shanker choked when he tried to speak. Finally he managed “Hank got a MiG? How?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Butler said.
“That’s gonna cost us a few beers,” Shanker declared.
“So where do we land?” Seagrave asked.
Butler pointed to a stretch of paved highway ten miles southeast of town. “This is a highway airstrip the Soviets built for wartime operations against Guantánamo Bay.”
Seagrave was interested. “So what’s there?”
“Over two miles of concrete with a taxi-through shelter at the eastern end for parking and turnaround.” He pulled out three high-resolution photographs of the highway. “Satellite imagery from two days ago.” He handed them a magnifier. The two men bent over the photos and passed the magnifier back and forth as they went over every square inch of the photos.
“There’s nothing there,” Shanker said.
“And the concrete looks clean and is in good shape,” Seagrave added. “A bit narrow, though. Good thing for that turnaround. What’s the DAAFAR got?”
Butler pointed to the airfield four miles northeast of the city. “A squadron of MiG-21s and a squadron of MiG-23s plus the usual antiaircraft defenses. Our latest reports indicate they may have five or six aircraft operational. Most have been cannibalized for parts.”
“Fuel,” Seagrave said, now into it. “How far?” Fuel, or the lack of it, was a fact of life for the Lightning. Butler produced another chart used for flight planning, and Seagrave quickly spanned off the distances from Key West to Camagüey. “A bridge too far,” he said. “We’ll need a tanker for air-to-air refueling.”
“Boom or drogue?” Butler asked.
“Drogue,” Seagrave replied.
“No problem,” Butler replied.
“You can arrange that?” Shanker asked.
“If I can’t, it’s time I retired.”
The two pilots bent over the chart and worked the problem for the next hour while Butler called the station commander and arranged for an airborne tanker. Finally Seagrave straightened up. “We can do it with a tanker on the way in and a little deception. High-low profile in, low-high profile out.” As far as he was concerned, the decision was made. “We land on the highway, taxi through the shelter to turn around, and pick Mike up. Piece of cake. All your chaps have to do is get him there.”
Butler shook his head. “We don’t have anyone in the area. But we can get a message to him.”
“How?” Shanker asked.
“I believe the telephones are working in that area,” Butler replied. The two men stared at him in disbelief. Butler couldn’t help himself and laughed. “So it’s stupid. But it works.”
“If it’s stupid but works,” Shanker intoned, “it ain’t stupid.”
Camagüey
The stream of patients into the clinic finally tapered off in the late afternoon, and Dr. Silva was able to look in on Stuart. He took his temperature while changing the bandage on his leg. The row of neat stitches was mute testimony to the doctor’s skills, but the telltale marks of infection were beyond his ability to treat. Even if he had the money, there were no antibiotics available. He checked the thermometer: thirty-nine degrees.
“How bad, Doc?” Stuart asked.
Silva converted the number to Fahrenheit. “A hundred and two degrees,” he said. He methodically bathed the wound. He had seen this before, and it was only a matter of time. “We will do what we can,” he said. When he was finished, he retreated to his office and buried his head in his arms, his frustration and anger consuming him. He took a deep breath and resolved to go on. The telephone rang, and he picked it up. He listened for a few moments. “We need antibiotics,” he said, hanging up. He walked briskly back to Stuart’s room.
“There was a telephone call from Brothers to the Rescue,” he said. “They’re sending a plane to pick you up tomorrow morning, soon after sunrise.”
“Where?” Stuart mumbled.
“There’s a highway eighteen kilometers to the southeast where an airplane can land. I’ll take you there.”
“It’s too dangerous for you to go,” Stuart said.
“They promised to bring antibiotics,” Silva replied.
Stuart started to say that Brothers to the Rescue was out of business, thanks to the FBI. But the look of hope on Silva’s face kept him silent.
Navy Key West
The Lightning’s dark gray paint glistened under the floodlights as the Gray Eagles pumped a hundred pounds of fuel into each of the two external fuel tanks mounted on top of the wings. Normally each tank held 2,160 pounds of fuel but they were only putting in enough fuel to check for transfer prior to takeoff. Shanker took one last walk around. He made a swipe with his rag at imaginary dust speckles on the seeker heads of the training AIM-9 air-to-air missiles, one under each wing. For a moment he considered telling the Eagles to download the missiles and pylons. But Seagrave had said to leave them. Besides, with the missiles there was no doubt what the Lightning was. He wasn’t so sure about the external fuel tanks. Mounting one on top of each wing was contrary to logic, and they should have been slung underneath where they belonged, next to the missiles. But that was the British. He wiped at the British roundel on the side of the fuselage underneath the cockpit. Lightning One was as ready as he could make it.
Shanker climbed the ladder and strapped his flight helmet on the right seat for his son to wear on the flight back. Butler’s words about parents not understanding their children were seared in his mind. All he had ever wanted was for Mike to be a fighter pilot like Maggot. But now he knew the truth. Mike had become his own man, on his own terms, and he, Shanker had missed it. He touched the helmet, hoping it was enough. He was still on the ladder when a blue staff car drove up and stopped. Seagrave and Butler were back from the briefing with the Navy. Seagrave walked over to the Lightning while Butler opened the back door and pulled out a box. “What’s that?” Shanker asked, still standing on the ladder.
“Antibiotics,” Butler replied, passing the box up to him. Shanker placed it on the right seat and buckled it down with the helmet. He climbed down, and Seagrave scampered up the ladder to strap on the jet. Shanker stood back as Seagrave brought the number-one engine on-line. Then number two cranked. He gave them a thumbs-up and snapped his oxygen mask in place. Then he looked back inside
the cockpit to finish running his checklist. He lingered a moment when he checked the external fuel tanks. Both were feeding, and the fuel gauges were functioning. His head came up and looked around as he radioed for clearance. Then he fast-taxied for the runway.
Shanker stood back and saluted the departing fighter. He glanced at the general, who was also saluting.
Seagrave snapped the gear up the moment the Lightning came unstuck. At five hundred feet he turned to a heading of 120 degrees and climbed into the early morning dark. Ahead of him the first glow of sunrise cracked the eastern horizon. He checked the master chronometer on the instrument panel: twenty minutes to sunrise. Timing was critical, for he wanted full light when he coasted in and flew low-level over Cuba. Low levels were difficult under the best of conditions, and he would never find the highway strip in the dark, much less land. Air-Traffic Control came over the radio. “Panda One, confirm destination is San Juan Airport.”
“That’s affirmative,” Seagrave transmitted.
“Are you HF-equipped?”
“Negative high-frequency radio,” Seagrave said. “VHF and UHF only.” The Lightning’s radios were line-of-sight with a maximum range of 180 nautical miles at altitude.
“Roger, Panda One. You are cleared to destination airport, flight level three-five-oh. Remain this frequency until entering Havana FIR.” Havana FIR was the Flight Information Region that extended over international waters and was monitored by the Cubans. “Contact Havana on 133.7 for flight following. Avoid Cuban airspace and monitor Guard.”
“Copy all,” Seagrave replied. “Monitor Guard,” he mumbled to himself. “Are they expecting trouble?” He hoped not. Four minutes after liftoff he was flying straight and level at thirty-five thousand feet and. 9 Mach, or 530 nautical miles per hour. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. So far the deception part of the plan was working, and he was simply routine traffic flying to Puerto Rico. “Fuel check,” he told himself, talking to remain calm. Internal and wing fuel were feeding nicely, and of course the overwing tanks were dry before he took off. One of the idiosyncrasies of the Lightning was that during a long climb all the additional fuel carried in the overwing tanks was virtually canceled out by the extra weight and the power needed to climb. But once at altitude he could make good use of the tanks. Now he had to find the tanker the Navy had promised, or it was no go. On cue he saw a flashing rotating beacon ahead and below him. He checked his position on his handheld GPS and gave silent thanks to the geniuses who had created the system. The Lockheed Viking S-3A was on station waiting for him.
Near Camagüey
The old car jerked and rattled as Silva followed the dirt track out of town. Only one headlight still worked, and he could barely follow the ruts that passed for a road. Still, he didn’t have a choice if he was to avoid the roadblocks his patients had told him about. And ultimately they were the reason he was taking the American to his rescuers. With a supply of antibiotics he could save lives. He kept looking at Stuart, deeply worried that his fever might start to spike, a very bad sign. But if everything went right, the American would be in a hospital in Florida in a few hours and the infection under control. He stopped and checked on Stuart. The bandage was clean, and his temperature was warm but stable.
Silva slipped the car into gear and edged forward. Two kilometers later he joined the main road and turned to the east. Again he checked on Stuart, who was asleep. Ahead of him he could see the glow of sunrise. Just a few more kilometers, he thought. Suddenly the car hit a large pothole, and Stuart groaned as the car jerked to a stop. Silva gunned the engine, and the car clunked forward with a horrendous screeching sound before it ground to a complete halt. They got out to survey the damage, and the doctor slumped to the ground when he saw the broken rear axle. “A pothole,” he said, totally defeated.
“Hey, Doc,” Stuart said, looking into the hole, “I’ve got a dead moose we can bury there.”
Silva snorted. “We have our own sacred cows for that.”
“Let’s start walking,” Stuart said. The doctor shoved a water bottle into his medical bag and handed Stuart a walking stick.
Over the Straits of Florida
“Panda Two,” Seagrave radioed, “I have you in sight.”
“Cleared for contact,” the Viking pilot replied. A hose with a drogue basket fed out from the buddy refueling pack under the S-3A’s left wing as Seagrave moved into position. He barely had enough light to see and was thankful for the refueling light on the drogue. He retarded the throttles a hair and flew into the drogue, making contact on the first try. The old skills were still with him. The fuel transfer went smoothly, and he monitored the seven flight-refuel lights on the upper left console. One by one the lights went out. When the last one blinked off, he had a full load of fuel, including 4,260 pounds in his overwing external fuel tanks. He moved the refuel switch to normal and broke contact.
“Many thanks,” Seagrave radioed, climbing to thirty-five-thousand feet.
“Our pleasure,” the pilot answered. “Sorry we couldn’t clean your windscreen. By the way, our gear was active.”
Seagrave frowned. The “gear” was the Viking’s radar warning receiver, and “active” meant that the Cubans were painting them on a search radar. He took a deep breath. Time for the next, oh-so-critical step. He punched 133.7 into the radio and hit the transmit button. “Havana Control, Panda One with you at flight level three-five-oh, destination San Juan Airport, Puerto Rico.”
A woman with a heavy Spanish accent acknowledged the call.
Dallas
The clock’s blanking luminescent numbers read 5:00. L.J. gave up trying to sleep and crawled out of bed. She hadn’t slept a wink all night and was exhausted. But the conversation was still fresh and clear in her mind. RayTex’s chief legal counsel had called her after dinner with the news that the Department of Justice had reneged on all deals. They were back to square one. “Expect a search warrant first thing tomorrow morning,” the lawyer had warned.
L.J. pulled on a robe and sat on the edge of the bed. First Lloyd, now this, she thought. Damn the bastards to hell! She stood and walked to the French windows overlooking her garden. All the toys from the day care center were gone, and only the fence around the swimming pool was left as a reminder of the children who had played there. She was going to miss them. She hugged her arms to herself. I should have seen this coming when the county enforced that ordinance forbidding businesses in private residences. She wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep. But her relentless mind drove her on, forcing her to face the inevitability of the coming day.
“Expect a search warrant first thing tomorrow morning” echoed in her mind. Their strategy was obvious. Every time RayTex opened for business, the FBI would be there with a search warrant.
“Well, do it right,” she said to herself. She walked into her big closet and carefully selected the clothes she would wear.
Near Camagüey
Silva had his arm around Stuart as they hobbled down the road. “I think I’m bleeding,” Stuart said. The doctor helped him to a low tree, and they collapsed on the ground. For a moment neither said a word, breathing deeply. The light was rapidly improving, and Silva examined the bandage. His lips drew into a grim line, and he reached for his medical bag. He removed the bandage and cleaned the wound.
“The exercise makes it bleed,” he said. “It’s okay for now. But I don’t think you should move.”
“We may not have to,” Stuart said. He pointed behind the doctor. Stretching away from them into the early-morning light was a long strip of concrete.
Over Great Bahama Bank, the Caribbean
Seagrave punched at the GPS and highlighted the TRIP field. He pressed the enter button, and the number 250 flashed at him. He had flown 250 nautical miles since taking off. “Time, gentlemen,” he muttered. He checked the fuel gauges. He still had a thousand pounds remaining in each overwing tank, and all the others were full. “Very nice,” he said to himself. He punched up
Guard, the emergency frequency, on his radio and made the announcement. “Pan, Pan, Pan. This is Panda One on Guard.” He worked to put the right amount of panic in his words. “I have an emergency and am descending at this time, heading for Exuma International.” Exuma International was on Great Exuma Island in the Bahamas. “Repeat, I have an emergency and am diverting to Exuma International.”
He turned to the northeast, away from Cuba, racked the throttles to flight idle, and nosed over. He was going in the wrong direction but would be on the deck and below radar coverage after traveling less than fifteen miles. Not a long diversion, he reasoned, if the Cubans bought it and he disappeared from their radar screens. He scanned the instruments as he plummeted earthward. His radio squawked with a heavy Spanish accent asking him to state the nature of his emergency. He ignored it. With nothing else to do, he reached out and wound the clock.
Passing through two thousand feet, he broke his rate of descent and leveled off a hundred feet above the ocean. He turned due south, toward Cuba, and set his airspeed at 340 knots. “Might as well save some fuel,” he told himself. “No need to hurry. At least not yet.” He scanned the sky, looking for aircraft. Cuba was seventy nautical miles on the nose, twelve minutes’ flying time. The ocean was gray below him as the sun cracked the horizon. Soon it would be a bright blue, and the Lightning’s dark gray paint would stand out like a harsh shadow. But for now it was the perfect camouflage. The minutes passed. He glanced inside the cockpit at his GPS—thirteen miles to the coast. Then it was only another five minutes to the highway strip.
Again he searched the sky. He coasted in over some mangrove swamps and across the western end of Cayo Sabinal Island. He turned to the southwest. That was also part of the plan. If anyone saw him, they would assume he was heading for the fighter base at Camagüey. The land was flatter than he expected, and he squeaked it down another twenty-five feet. His eyes swept the sky in a constant search, looking for the bandits he assumed were out there. He wasn’t happy when two dots appeared at ten o’clock high. Just maybe they were heading for the base and not out looking for him. But it was an assumption he wasn’t willing to make. He nudged the throttles up, touching 420 knots, and altered course, all part of the plan. A quick glance at the fuel gauges for the external tanks—almost empty. Get rid of them before he was jumped and had to maneuver. A glimpse at the GPS to confirm he was on course and well clear of the base. His left hand automatically lifted the cover guarding the external-fuel-tank jettison switches. “Damn!” The two dots had become a pair of MiG-21s, and they were turning onto him, ready to slice down. Shanker had told him how difficult the small MiG-21 was to see, but he never imagined an engagement could develop so quickly. He started to reef into the lead MiG but hesitated. The MiG pilot wasn’t turning as aggressively as he should, and that was puzzling.
The Trojan Sea Page 42
