Cuba (56 page)

position. He also stayed low, just a few hundred

meters above the treetops.

There are few places more lonely than the cockpit

of a single-piloted airplane-at night when

surrounded by the enemy. Corrado felt that

loneliness now, felt as if he were the only person

still alive on Spaceship Earth.

The red glow of the cockpit lights comforted him

somewhat: this was really the only home he had ever had.

The lights of Havana were prominent tnhe saw the

glow at fifty miles even though he was barely a

thousand feet above sea level. He climbed a little

higher, looking, and saw a huge fire, quite

brilliant.

Carlos Corrado turned toward the fire. Perhaps

he would find some airborne targets. He turned

on his gun switch and armed the infrared missiles.

The E-2 controller datalinked the bogey information

to the F-14 crew patrolling over central

Cuba at 30,000 feet. There should have been two

F-14’s, a section, but one plane had

mechanical problems prior to launch, so there was

only one fighter on this station.

The bogey appeared on the scope of the radar

intercept officer, the RIO, in the rear seat of the

Tomcat. He narrowed the scan of his radar and

tried to acquire a lock on the target, which was

merely a blip that faded in and out against the ground

clutter.

“What the hell is it”…”…the pilot demanded,

referring to the bogey.

“I don’t knowea”…was the reply, and therein was the

problem. Without a positive identification,

visual or electronic, of the bogey, the rules

of engagement prohibited the American pilot from

firing his weapons. There were simply too many

American planes and helicopters flying around in

the darkness over Cuba to allow people to blaze away at

unknown targets.

The darkness below was alive with lights, the lights of

cities and small towns, villages, vehicles,

and here and there, antiaircraft artilleryflakwhich was

probing the darkness with random bursts. Fortunately the

gunners could not use radar to acquire a, targetthe

instant they turned a radar on, they drew a

HARM missile from the EA-6BS and

FirstA-18’s that circled on their assigned

stations, listening.

The F-14 pilot, whose name was Wallace P.

“Stiff” Hardwick, got on the radio

to Battlestar Control. “Battlestar, Showtime One

Oh Nine, request permission to investigate this

bogey.”

“Wait.”

Stiff expected that. Being a fighter

pilot in this day and age wasn’t like the good old

days, when you went cruising for a fight. Not that he was

there for the good old days, but Stiff had sure heard

about them.

“That goddamn Cuban is gonna zap somebody

while the people on the boat are scratching their

assea”…Stiff told his RIO, Boots

VonRauenzahn.

“Yeahea”…sd Boots, who never paid much attention

to Stiff’s grousing.

STEPHEN COONTS

Carlos Corrado saw that a building was on

fire, burning with extraordinary intensity. Never

had he seen such a hot flre. He assumed that the

building had been bombed by a cruise missile or

American plane disand began visually searching the

sky nearby for some hint of another aircraft.

He flew right over the V-22 Osprey carrying

Tommy Carmellini and Doll Hanna back to the

ship and never saw it.

A lot of flak was rising from the outskirts of

Havana, so Carlos turned east, away from it.

In the black velvet ahead he saw lights, and

steered toward them. At 500 knots he

closed quickly, and saw helicopters’ landing lights!

They were flying back and forth over a large barn!

They must be Americansthey sure as hell weren’t

Cuban. As far as he knew, he was the only

Cuban in the air tonight.

Corrado flew past the areanow down to 400 knots

and did a 90-degree left turn, then a

270-degree right turn. Level, inbound, he

retarded the throttles of the two big engines.

Three hundred knots… he picked the landing

lights on some land of strange-looking twin rotor

helicopter and pushed the nose over just a tad,

bringing the strange chopper into the gunsight. Then he

pulled the trigger on the stick.

The 30-mm cannon shells smashed into Rita

Moravia’s Osprey with devastating effect. She

was in the midst of a transition from wing-borne

to rotor-borne flight and had the engines pointed up

at a seventy-degree angle. The rotors were

carrying most of the weight of the twenty-ton ship, so

when the cannon shells ripped into the right engine and it

ceased developing power, the V-22 began sinking

rapidly.

The good engine automatically went to emergency

torque and transferred some of its power to the

rotor of the

bad engine through a driveshaft that connected the two

rotor transmissions.

With shells thumping into the plane and warning lights

flashing, Rita felt the right wing sag. Some of the

shells must have damaged the right transmission!

The ground rushed at her, even as cannon shells

continued to strike the plane.

She pulled the stick back and left, trying to make

the right rotor take a bigger bite.

Then the machine struck the earth and the instrument panel

smashed into her night vision goggles.

In the missile control room, Toad Tarkington

held his flashlight on the old man as he

produced a candle from his pocket and a kitchen match.

He lit the match and applied it to the candle’s

wick.

One candle wasn’t much, but it did light the room.

Toad turned off the flashlight and stood there

looking at the old man.

Muffled crashing sounds reached him, echoed down the

stairwell, but no one came. Toad’s headset was

quiet too, probably since he was underground.

“Do you speak English”…”…Toad asked the

white-haired man in front of him.

The old man shook his head.

“Espanol?”

“Si, senor.”

“Well, I don’t.”

Toad walked over and checked the man, who had no

visible weapons on him.

He had a handful of plastic ties in his pocket.

These ties were issued to every marine for the sole purpose

of securing prisoners’ hands, and feet if necessary.

Toad put a tie around the old man’s hands. The

man didn’t resist; merely sat at the control

console with his face a mask, showing no emotion.

“Cuban”…”…Toad asked.

“Nyet.”

“Russki?”

The white head bobbed once, then was still.

Toad used the flashlight to inspect the console,

to examine the instruments. This stuff was old, he could

see that. Everything was mechanical, no digital

gauges or readouts, no computer displays … the

console reminded Toad of the dashboard of a 1950’s

automobile, with round gauges and bezels and …

Well, without power, all this was academic.

His job was to get that damned warhead out of the

missile, then set demolition charges

to destroy all this stuff, missile, control room,

and all. He left the Russian at the console and

opened the blast-proof door across the room from the

stair where he had entered.

Another stairway led downward.

Toad went as quickly as he dared, still holding the

flashlight hi one hand and his pistol in the other.

He went through one more steel door… and there the

missile stood, white and massive and surreal in

the weak beam of the flashlight.

The aviation radio frequencies exploded when

Rita’s plane was shot down as everyone tried

to talk at once.

Battlestar Control finally managed to get a word in

over the babble, a call to Stiff Hardwick. “Go

down for a look. Possible hostile may have shot

down an Osprey.”

Stiff didn’t need any urging. He rolled the

Tomcat onto its back, popped the speed

brakes, and started down.

“Silo oneea”…Boots said. “This bogey is

flitting around down there like a goddamn bat or

something, mixing it up with the SuperCobras and

Ospreys. Let’s not shoot down any of the good

guys.”

“No shitea”…sd Stiff, who was sure he could handle

any Cuban fighter pilot alive. This guy was

meat on the table: he just didn’t know it yet.

Carlos Corrado pulled out of his strafing ran and

soared up to three thousand feet. He extended out for

eight or nine miles before he laid the fighter over

in a hard turn.

He had seen helicopters d6wn there, at least

two. It was time to use the radar.

As he stabilized inbound he flipped the radar

switch to “transmit.” He pushed the button for

moving targets and sure enough, within seconds the

pulse-doppler radar in the nose of the MiGo-29

had found three. The rest of the drill was simplicity

xfhe selected an Aphid missile, locked it

on a target, and fired. Working quickly, he

selected a second missile, locked on a

second target, and fired.

He had to keep the targets illuminated while the

Aphids were in flight, so he continued inbound toward

the silo.

One of the SuperCobras exploded when an Aphid

drilled it dead center. The second missile

tore the tail rotor off its target, which spun

violently into the ground and caught fire.

Carlos Corrado flew across the barn, holding his

heading, extending out before he turned to make another

shooting pass.

Toad Tarkington found the circular steel ladder

leading upward in the missile silo and began

climbing.

When he reached the catwalk he walked around the

missile, examining the skin. There was the little access

port, six inches by six inches, with the dozen

screws! That had to be it.

Toad Tarkington put the flashlight under his left

armpit and got out a screwdriver.

He had three screws out when the flashlight

slipped out of his armpit and fell. It bounced off the

catwalk and went on down beside the missile, breaking

when it hit the grate at the bottom.

The darkness in the silo was total.

Toad Tarkington cursed softly, and went back

to taking out screws. He worked by feel. Someone would

come along in a minute, he thought, bringing another

flashlight: If

someone didn’t, he would take the time to go find

another.

The trick, he knew, would be to hold on to the

screwdriver. He only had one, and if

he dropped it, it would go down the grate.

He heard muffled noises from above, but he couldn’t

tell what they were. It didn’t really matter,

he decided. Getting this warhead out of this missile

was priority one.

Carefully, working by feel, he removed the screws

from the access panel one by one. When he had the last

one out, he pried at the panel. It came off

easily enough and he laid it on the catwalk near his

feet.

So far so good. He carefully stowed the screwdriver

in his tool bag and wiped the sweat from his face and

hands.

Okay.

Toad reached up to find the latch that the ancient

Russian engineer on television had said should be

here. God knows where the CIA found that guy!

Yep. He found the latch.

He rotated it. Now the latch on the left. He

was having his troubles getting that latch to turn when the

lights came on in the silo.

From instant darkness to glaring light from twenty or more

bulbs.

Toad Tarkington pulled his arm from the missile,

clapped his hands over his eyes and squinted,

waiting for his eyes to adjust.

He could hear a hum. Must be a fan or blower

moving air.

No. The hum was in the missile, just a foot or

two from his head.

Something winding up. The pitch was rising rapidly.

A gyro?

What was going on?

Toad started down the ladder, moving as fast as he

could go, intending to go to the control room to see what in

hell was happening.

He heard a grinding noise, loud, low-pitched, and

looked up. The cap on the silo was opening.

Holy…

He still had his tools. If he could get that access

panel off and cut the guidance wires, the wires

to control the warhead…

Toad Tarkington scrambled back up the ladder,

The little six-by-six access hole gaped at him.

He ran his arm in, trying to reach the other latches

that would allow the large panel to come off.

He got one open. The gyro had ceased

to accelerateit was running steadily now, a

high-pitched steady whine.

Holy shit!

He was out of time: the fire from the missile’s engines

would fry him to a cinder.

He heard the igniters firing, popping like jet

engine igniters.

The rocket motors lit with a mighty whoosh.

Toad grabbed for the access hole with both hands,

held on desperately as the missile began

to rise on a column of fire.

The noise was beyond deafeningit was the loudest thing

Toad Tarkington had ever heard, a soul-numbing