“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.
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.
“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.
“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.”
Tombstone glanced down at his fuel gauge. It was dropping perilously low, far out of the acceptable range for beginning a dogfight. And the tanker with its fighter escorts was too far ahead to provide cover for them. He sighed it was always like this. Just when you thought it was over, the fat lady failed to sing.
“Been a while since our last dogfight, my love.” He slewed the Tomcat violently back toward the incoming raid and grabbed for altitude.
“Let’s get up where we can get a good look at what’s going on.” And where I’ll have some reserve altitude when this bird runs out of fuel, he added silently. Altitude was safety, safety and reserve airspeed and maneuverability. With it, he might have a chance. But without it, the starving Tomcat was no match for a MiG.
Santana tweaked his radar, looking in vain for the flight of attack aircraft he’d been so certain were outbound from his home base.
Regardless of his delicate twiddling of the knobs, the radar insisted on showing only one air contact a Tomcat, according to the ESM gear that had made it an AWG-9 radar in search mode.
But where were the others? There should have been at least three other Tomcats in Bombcat configuration, along with some fighters armed with antiair missiles for protection, not one lone Tomcat straggling off toward the boat. No, he corrected, not straggling already alerted to what was happening around him, and climbing for altitude to gain a superior fighting position.
It was inconceivable that only one aircraft could have so fatally damaged Cuba’s master plan. Inconceivable and unacceptable. The Tomcat pilot was probably congratulating himself right now, dreaming of the awards and medals he’d receive for such a daring mission. Even more unacceptable.
Santana pulled the nose of the MiG up and headed for the sky. He needed some altitude, something to force this into a horizontal-plane battle of angles as he’d had earlier with the last Tomcat victim. For if he had anything to say about it, this particular Tomcat pilot was going to see his dreams of glory turn into his worst nightmare.