“Now.” Santana had already toggled the weapons selector to gun, and knew that this opportunity was just moments away.
The American would still be expecting him to break, waiting for that moment to shoot a Sidewinder on the oh-so-attractive heat source flaring out of the engines. What he wouldn’t expect was this.
Santana jinked the aircraft up, correcting his angle for approach on the Tomcat from a near miss to guaranteed collision. If the American wanted to play chicken, Santana would find out what he was made of.
Seconds later, he saw it begin. The angle on the Tomcat changed slightly, indicating that the American was attempting to maneuver away from certain midair collision. Santana grinned, jogged the MiG slightly nose up, and shot a brief burst from his 30 mm GSh-301 gun in the port wing root.
The depleted uranium pellets saturated the air directly in front of the Tomcat.
The American had no chance. The Tomcat-streamed right through the barrage, and Santana saw, in the American’s last moments, a delicate tracery of black holes spout up along the starboard wing and fuselage.
Seconds later, the night flared into brilliance as the fuel streaming out of the wing tanks ignited. The light blinded him, just as his flares had earlier. However, a satisfying dull thud followed momentarily by a rocking wash of air over pressure told him the attack had been a success. The Tomcat exploded.
For five seconds. Bird Dog and Gator operated on instinct rather than training. Bird Dog saw the angle change, realized with a sickening rush of fear what the MiG intended, and reached for the ejection handle above his head.
Gaitor beat him to it. The Older, more experienced aviator activated command eject. The canopy shot off, the explosive bolts severing the connection between hardened Plexiglas and steel fuselage. Bird Dog felt one gush of wind, a flash of heat as Gator’s ejection seat shot away from the aircraft at an angle, then the hard, unconsciousness-inducing motion of his own ejection seat parting company with his aircraft.
He was less than fifty feet away from the aircraft, the seat already starting to respond to the inexorable pull of gravity, when he heard the soft crump of the Tomcat’s disintegration.
The fireball reached out for him, its outer edges clawing hungrily for the delicate canopy now unfolding from the ejection seat. If it touched even one of the thin strands, or licked a panel of the unfolding parachute, it wouldn’t matter whether he survived the ejection. The fall alone, five thousand feet to the warm, blood-temperature sea, would kill him.
As his night vision started to return, Santana rolled his aircraft over inverted and looked up at the canopy now pointed down at the sea, searching the sky for parachutes.
There was no chance, really, that the Americans had managed to escape.
Still, he wanted to make sure that the pilot who had dared to challenge him died with his aircraft.
Even though the man had been fatally insolent in targeting his MiG, Santana wished him a good death. One in midair, inside the aircraft, not killed by the uncertain vagaries of ejection or smashed against the hard surface of the ocean below. He wished the man a good death, but a death nonetheless.
“Jesus!” Tombstone slammed his eyelids shut, too late.
‘Tomboy, lost my night vision. What’s around us?”
“I thought you were going to stay clear of the furball,” his RIO snapped back. “One straggler dogfight in the area, and you wander into the middle of it. Didn’t I tell you to” “Where is the MiG now?”
Tombstone demanded. “Give me a vector.”
“He’s breaking off and RTB,” Tomboy reported after a slight pause.
“The Tomcat it exploded midair.”
“Any chutes?” Perhaps his RIO’s night vision had survived the fireball in front of him.
“I think I seeyes, one. No, make that two. I’d call it good chutes, but who can tell from here?”
Tombstone reported the engagement and the presence of two probable parachutes settling into the water below to the carrier. With any luck, Jefferson’s SAR would be on top of the aviators before Cuba could vector in any small boats to pick them up. Had he had the time, he would have stayed overhead himself, circling and providing cover from surface attack with his guns.
But he couldn’t. Not if he intended to accomplish his mission and get the information back to the carrier in time to make a difference in this battle. He hoped the downed aviators would understand. He wasn’t so certain that he would, in the same position.
Jefferson acknowledged Tombstone’s call for SAR, and reported that the Angel helicopter was inbound his location.
Tombstone acknowledged the transmission with a brief click, then turned his attention back to his mission. Moments later, the verdant landscape of Cuba, now a dim watercolor engraved in black, rushed by below his aircraft.
Feet dry.
FIFTEEN
By the time Sikes and his cadre reached the beach, the sun was already nibbling away at the darkness that had been their primary protection. Behind them, they could hear sirens and explosions. Whether it was a new attack by the American forces, one not noted in the original plan, or simply secondary detonations of munitions lockers and stored aviation fuel, they didn’t know. And it didn’t matter, really. What was important was that the chaos on the base was providing a needed distraction while they made good their egress. Sikes glanced back at Drake and Thor. The Marine was holding up as well as he’d boasted he would, and had not even broken a sweat on the quick run-jog back to the beach. Drake now that was a different matter. She had guts, he had to admit. She was clearly exhausted, at the very edge of her endurance, yet was grimly putting one foot in front of the other as fast as she could. She had slowed down a little, but not much. Then again, sometimes “not much” was the difference between life and death.
When they reached the point where they’d stashed their wet suits, Sikes parked the two in deep cover while the SEALs quickly slipped back into their gear. Minutes later, he rejoined them, his face mask hanging down around his chin. “As I asked earlier how well do you swim?”
“Well enough,” Drake answered immediately. She looked over at Thor.
He spread his hands out in front of him, palms up. “I’m a ground pounder, but I imagine I can keep up.” Unlike before, there was a small note of uncertainty in his voice.
Sikes tried again. “Mister, play straight with me. I don’t have time for games. Can you swim or not? If you can’t, we’ll just make other arrangements.” He wondered exactly what those “other arrangements” would consist of, but put the matter off for a moment while he waited for the Marine’s response.
“I can swim. Not real well, and I’ll never win any speed records, but I can churn my way through the water and stay afloat, at least well enough to pass the water-survival flight test.”
Sikes groaned inwardly. While every pilot had to demonstrate the ability to stay afloat for thirty minutes, and to use his or her gear to provide flotation while waiting for rescue, the test was hardly a grueling one. But if that was the extent of the Marine’s water skills, so be it; it would have to be enough. He turned back to Pamela Drake.