They had to dodge far south of course, around sprinkles of ore mines and tiny villages to avoid the spot where the antiaircraft artillery gun had been destroyed by one of the Old Dog’s HARM missiles. Carter set five hundred feet in the clearance plane to allow more leeway in terrain clearance as they roared through a high valley and across a ridge-line south of the town of Matagalpa.
“We should have met up with that SA-10 site by now,” Atkins said nervously. The calm that he had restored in himself after the strike against the SA-15 site had come back full force after the MiG encounter. He was reproaching himself loud enough to trigger the voice-activated interphone, and Karbayjal had to reach across the aisle beside him and touch his shoulder, trying to calm him down. The navigators were quiet. Kellerman had to be prompted to activate the ground-mapping radar to check terrain. Scott was quiet too. He had activated his laser-scanner in preparation for the strike, but the scanner was not moving in any sort of search pattern.
“Nav, brief us on this axis of attack,” Carter said, trying to bring his crew back together any way he could think of. “You said we’re five miles south of course — how will this affect our attack plan?”
“What?”
“Alicia, get with it,” Carter said. “Brief the crew on the attack profile.”
A strained pause, then: “We … we’ll be heading more directly down the runway instead of perpendicular to it,” she replied in a ragged voice. “The triple-A will be at our twelve o’clock. It might be harder to pick out from this direction.”
“You hear that, Paul?”
“Y … yes.”
“What else, Alicia?”
“The CBUs,” Kellerman said. “We should launch the first pod down the runway after we defeat the triple-A site.”
“I can designate the hangars on that pass,” Scott put in. He could lock the gyro-stabilized laser-scanner on up to five different images, and no matter how the B-52 turned, the designated targets could be recalled and attacked at any time once they were back within range.
“And the smoke and fire should cover our turn when we line up on the target,” Cheshire added.
Carter smiled behind his oxygen visor. “All right,” he said. “We’re starting to sound like a combat crew again. Now let’s do it and get out of here.”
General Tret’yak stood in the control tower of his small airfield, presiding over preparations for the defense of Sebaco like a modern-day Nicholas I, with his almost medieval forces, defending the battlements of Sevastopol in the Crimea against the then-high-tech forces of the upstart Napoleon III and the unstoppable if inept British. He fancied the defense of Sebaco as a symbol of Soviet power in the western hemisphere, and he was going to repel the invaders of his twenty-five-square-kilometer airfield.
His forces were at the ready, poised for battle as soon as the message from Puerto Cabezas had been received. An exact number of attackers could not be determined — Tret’yak had been bracing for an entire carrier air wing of bombers, but no reports of an American fleet within striking range of Sebaco had been reported. That meant it was a smaller, less formidable strike force on the way, perhaps only a few aircraft. Good — his forces could handle that.
To counter the American attackers, four MiG-23s were idling at the northwest end of the runway, each loaded with four AA-8 missiles on fuselage stations and two infrared-guided close-range AA-11 missiles on underwing pylons, plus a twin-barreled GSh23 gun and a centerline fuel tank. Two more were in reserve, cannibalized for parts earlier but quickly being repaired and readied for combat.
In addition to the fighters Tret’yak had an SA-8 surface-to-air missile-battery brought up from Managua situated near the center of the runway on a small hill about a kilometer north of the field. The SA-8 was a small, fast missile, capable of destroying the American navy’s F/A-18 Hornet fighter-bomber even during a supersonic bomb run. The SA-10 missile site had been moved once again, down from the hills above Sebaco into the Rio Tuma river valley, and it appeared they had positioned it perfectly — any aircraft flying toward Sebaco from Puerto Cabezas had to fly down that valley, right into the jaws of the SA-10 system. The SA-10 was a longer-range missile, capable of defeating attackers from treetop level up to eighty thousand feet. For close-in defense, they still had the two fifty-seven-millimeter guns on each end of the runway, which could create a virtual wall of lead around Sebaco for two miles.
They had other defenses, including Nicaraguan anti-air artillery units deployed in three areas around Sebaco. One of them was located in the Rio Tuma valley, again in perfect position to engage the American attackers.
Tret’yak’s forces were in excellent position.
“Message from People’s Militia Group seven, sir,” an aide reported.
“Who?”
“The Nicaraguan militia force northeast of the base, in Matagalpa,” the aide replied. “They report they are under attack. One ZSU-23 anti-aircraft artillery unit destroyed, nine casualties, ten wounded by rocket attack.”
“I need details, Lieutenant,” Tret’yak said. “What kind of rockets? What kind of aircraft? Speed? Direction?”
As the aide turned to the radio operator, Tret’yak checked his chart of the area, then looked to the tower controller. “Clear the flight for launch, Sergeant. Send them down the Rio Tuma valley and engage the intruders at low altitude.”
The controller nodded, picked up his microphone and said in Spanish, “Sebaco flight of four, target at heading zero-nine-five, range twenty miles, cleared—”
Suddenly they saw a flash of light north of the runway, followed by a streak of fire. One of the SA-8 missiles leaped off its launch rail and roared toward the southeast, the missile so low and flying in such a flat trajectory that it looked as if it would hit one of the hangars. The first group of two MiG-23s, which had already gone into afterburner and had begun their takeoff roll, abruptly pulled their engines out of afterburner and stopped as the SA-8 missile roared across the departure end of the runway.
“Missile site two engaging low-altitude targets,” the radio operator reported. “bearing one-six-zero true, range twenty kilometers.”
“I can see that,” Tret’yak shouted. “Get those fighters airborne.”
“Missile-site two reports multiple targets, sir. They recommend holding the launch until they engage again—”
“No.” Then to be on the safe side Tret’yak said, “Tell missile site two to hold fire to let two aircraft depart. Launch aircraft one and two. Tell three and four to hold position. Get five and six ready for takeoff.”
The controller called out the new orders, and soon the first two MiG-23s were in afterburner once again and roaring down the runway.
“Afterburner blowout on fighter two,” Tret’yak’s aide called out. Only one glowing engine was visible in the nighttime sky.
Tret’yak sucked in his breath as he watched the fighter skim the trees to the southeast to build up enough speed for the climb-out. But soon both birds were climbing and turning northeast to find the attackers.
“Have missile site two reengage,” Tret’yak ordered. “If they are still picking up targets, we’ll have three and four head south to—’,
His words were drowned out by the roar of another SA-8 missile leaving its rails, following the first missile’s flight path except on an even flatter trajectory. The smoke had barely cleared from the second missile launch when Tret’yak saw a brief flash of gunfire from the southern fifty-seven-millimeter triple-A emplacement.