Two antiaircraft batteries sat beside the prison, old Soviet four-barreled ZPUs with optical sights. They were useless against fast movers but would be hell on helicopters.
The roof of the prison was flat, and apparently empty. No. Correct that. Snipers on the corners. Damn!
Jake checked the radio to ensure he was on the proper frequency, then keyed the mike. “Angel One, this is Battlestar One, where are you?”
“Angel One’s on its way to the television station to deliver a passenger.”
“Let me know when you lift off from there.”
“Roger that, Battlestar.”
“Night Owl Four Two, call your posit.”
Jack O’Brian in the F-117 replied, “Night Owl Four Two is overhead at ten.”
“La Cabana Prison is our object of interest tonight, Four Two. I want single bombs, all to stay within the walls. Can you do that?”
“We can try, sir. You know the limitations on my equipment as well as I do.”
“Your best efforts. Lots of friendlies outside the wall. First target is the antiaircraft battery inside the prison walls on the north side. Do you see it?”
“Wait.” Seconds ticked by.
“Got it.”
“The second target is the antiaircraft battery on the south side.”
“Night Owl Four Four is on station at eleven thousand, Battlestar. Why don’t we each run one of those targets? I’ll take the north one.”
The two F-117 pilots discussed it and Jake approved
Jack O’Brian had several possible ways to drop the bombs he carried in the internal bomb bay. If he were bombing through a cloud deck or in rain or snow, he would release the unpowered weapon over the target and let it steer itself to the GPS bull’s-eye through use of a GPS receiver, a computer, and a set of canards mounted on the nose of the weapon. Tonight, since the sky was reasonably clear, he would illumine the target with a laser beam while overflying it, and let the unpowered bomb fly itself to the laser-designated bull’s-eye. If O’Brian could keep the laser beam directly on the spot he wished the bomb to hit, he should be able to achieve pinpoint, bomb-in-a-barrel accuracy.
Once again O’Brian carefully checked his electronic countermeasures panel, which was dark. The Cubans were off the air, which was comforting.
Now he adjusted the focus of the infrared camera in the nose. The display blossomed slowly, continued to change as he got closer and the grazing angle increased.
He could see the gun plainly owing to the camera’s magnification. He sweetened the crosshairs just a touch as the airplane motored sedately toward the target, still cruising at ten thousand feet, and turned on the laser designator, which was slaved to the crosshairs.
Jack O’Brian checked his watch. “Night Owl Four Two is thirty seconds from drop.”
“Four Four is a minute out”
“Don’t turn on your laser until you see my thing pop.”
“Roger.”
Armament panel set for one bomb, laser mode selected, laser designator on, master armament switch on, steady on the run-in heading, autopilot engaged, crosshairs steady on the target — no drift — system into Attack. A tone sounded in his ears and was broadcast over the radio on the tactical frequency. O’Brian knew that several people were listening for that tone, including the pilot of the other F-117 Night Owl Four Four, Judy Kwiatkowski.
He watched for unexpected wind drift. Not much tonight — what little wind there was was well within the capability of the bomb to handle.
Counting down, the second hand on the clock on the instrument panel ticking … The release marker marched down and he felt the thump as the bomb bay doors snapped open. Immediately thereafter the bomb was released, the tone stopped, then the doors closed again.
With the bomb in the air, it was essential that the cross-hairs on the laser designator stay precisely on the target because the bomb was guiding itself toward this spot of invisible light.
He took manual control of the crosshairs, kept them right on the artillery piece beside the old fortress.
The aspect angle of the target was changing, of course, as the airplane flew over it and beyond. Now it was behind the plane, the crosshairs right on the target.
Then, suddenly, the antiaircraft artillery piece disappeared in a flash as the five-hundred-pound bomb struck it dead center.
Thirty seconds later the gun on the south side of the building was hit by Judy Kwiatkowski’s weapon.
“Very good, Night Owls,” Battlestar said. “The next target is the tank nearest to the main gate. I think one bomb will discourage the tankers. Four Four, I want you to bomb the main gate. Tell me if you see it.”
“Four Four has the target”
“How long until the weapons hit?”
“Give us ten minutes to go out and make another run.”
“Ten minutes will do fine,” Jake Grafton said, then turned to Rita.
“After the bombs hit the tanks and main gate, I want you to land on the roof. The guys in back will go out shooting and take care of the snipers. Let me go talk to Eckhardt and Toad.” Both officers were riding in the back of the Osprey with the grunts.
Jake unstrapped and got out of the copilot’s seat. In a moment Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt climbed into the seat and used the infrared scope. “See the snipers?” the admiral asked. “I want you and your people to shoot them or capture them, whatever.”
“Yes, sir.” The colonel got out of the seat.
“Ten minutes, Rita. Start your clock.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Rita said, and began figuring the best way to approach the prison.
A man from the control tower ran to find Carlos Corrado and tell him that American aircraft were over Havana. The people in the tower heard the news on short-wave radio from headquarters.
“Havana.”
Corrado threw away his cigar butt and got into his flying gear.
Five minutes later he was taxiing. He didn’t stop at the end of the runway to check the systems or controls, but added power and stroked the burners. The big fighter responded like a thoroughbred race horse and lifted off after a short run.
Of course he left his radar off.
Still, the crew of the U.S. Air Force E-3 Sentry over the Isle of Pines picked up a skin-paint return of the MiG almost immediately.
“Showtime One Oh Two, we got a bogey lifting off Cienfuegos, looks like he’s on his way to Havana on the deck. Try to intercept. Over.”
Stiff Hardwick had been airborne for an hour and ten minutes. The recovery aboard United States would begin in exactly thirty-five minutes. This bogey was on the deck using fuel at a prodigious rate, and when Stiff came swooping down from 30,000 feet his fuel consumption would also go through the roof. Fuel would be tight. Very tight. If he had to stroke the throttles to drop this turkey, he was going to need a tanker.
“One Oh Two will probably need a tanker.”
“Roger that. Showtime One Oh Seven—” this was Stiff’s wingman, who was orbiting a thousand feet above Stiff “—remain on station.”
“One Oh Seven aye.”
“Showtime One Oh Two is on the way,” Stiff told the E-3 controller.
“That’s the spirit,” Sailor Karnow said from the rear cockpit.
“Shut up, babe. Just do your thing and keep the crap to yourself.”
“You got it, dickwick. I’m behind you all the way.”
The helicopter landed in the street in front of the television station and Mercedes stepped out. Ocho waved as it lifted off, leaving her standing there with her hair and skirt blowing wildly, clutching the videotape.