The first KC-130 reached the end of the runway and executed a right 180-degree turn onto the parallel taxiway.
"Here they are," Flannagan radioed, spotting the four Marine F/A-18s streak overhead in tight formation and enter the defensive circle.
The VMFA-323 Death Rattlers, on detachment to Roosevelt Roads Naval Air Station, Puerto Rico, checked in with the VC-10 Skyhawks. The Hornets would maintain high station during the evacuation.
Below, the last KC-130 was touching down as the first Hercules, crammed quickly with personnel, added power for takeoff from the taxiway.
The transport squadron CO passed the landing Hercules, accelerated rapidly past the control tower, then hauled the straining KC-130 into the air. The pilot, hugging the deck, raised the landing gear as the aircraft roared over the Hot Cargo area. The aircraft commander of the second Hercules was commencing his takeoff run when the first transport passed over the end of the taxiway.
Both groups of fighter escorts circled lazily overhead, watching the evacuation operation while keeping a vigilant eye open for MiGs.
The orderly scene was shattered by a frantic call from Frank Wellby. "Bogies! Bogies at… comin' in high from the northwest!"
"Weapons Hot!" the VC-10 commanding officer ordered.
The stagnant air in the bomb shelter was thick with suffocating dust. Raul Castro, boiling with anger, stormed up the steps and kicked open the dented door. He was unprepared for the magnitude of destruction that lay around him. The hangars and support facilities, burning furiously, had been reduced to rubble.
The control tower had toppled to the ground, crushing the Cuban general's personal helicopter. Two fuel trucks at the base of the tower added to the inferno. Flames licked skyward from the fuel storage area, sending billowing clouds of coal black smoke rising over the ruins of San Julian.
Raul also noticed that the baseball stadium had been destroyed. The walls of the underground hangar had caved in, touching off a fuel tank fire. Castro walked a few steps and stopped as two MiG29s, followed by three MiG-25s, flew over the field to survey the damaged landing strip.
The contingent of Cuban and Russian military personnel, including Gennadi Levchenko, emerged from the underground shelter. They stared at the devastation, coughing as they brushed the dust from their faces. Levchenko, seeing the blazing fire, knew that the intense heat had melted the tapes containing the secret Stealth information.
The Cuban general, shaking with rage, lunged toward Levchenko. "The Soviet Union," Castro hissed in the Russian's face, "is responsible for this!"
The MiGs, looking for a divert field, added power and flew northeast.
President Jarrett, wearing a blue windbreaker, sat across from two air force generals. He held a phone to his ear, listening intently to his secretary of defense.
"Mister President," Kerchner said over the secure net, "we have lost a number of aircraft, but the strike was successful… in our estimation."
Jarrett shifted around to glance at a message, nodding his head in agreement. "Bernie," the president replied, turning back around, "give me a quick synopsis."
Kerchner measured his words carefully. "San Julian was damaged heavily, but we don't know if the B-2 was there or had departed, as the Cubans claim."
"Okay, Bernie," Jarrett said impatiently, "let's get some photoreconnaissance — see if we can detect the B-2 in the rubble."
"Yes, sir."
The president paused. "What were our losses?"
"At the moment," Kerchner replied uncomfortably, loosening his tie, "we show six aircraft at San Julian, along with three F-14s, two additional Hornets, one F-16, and an A-4 at Guantanamo Bay."
"Did the Marines get out okay?" the president asked as he totaled the number of aircraft lost on his code reference book.
"Yes, sir," Kerchner answered quickly, "but one of the trailing C-130s was shot up before our fighters downed the MiGs. The Hercules lost an engine, but they're limping home with a fighter escort."
"What about our aircrews?" Jarrett asked, experiencing the pressure of command. "Did we have anyone… any crewmen captured?"
"Not that we are aware of," Kerchner answered, deeply concerned about the lack of timely information. "However, the aircrews have not been debriefed yet, so we'll know more in about an hour and a half."
The president sighed. "Okay, Bernie… oh, what happened to the Soviet ship — the Marshal Ustinov?"
"We're not sure, sir," Kerchner responded, glancing at his message notes. "We think a Cuban pilot erroneously thought it was one of ours, and strafed it. We'll get the credit, though."
"Well, Bernie," the president paused, "what is your recommendation?"
Both men were interrupted almost simultaneously as the flash message appeared on monitors. "Uh, oh," Kerchner said first. "Sir, we have an emergency condition — cruise missiles approaching Florida! We have to alert the—"
"I see it!" Jarrett said excitedly, turning to the four-star general. "Get everything up! They have to knock down those missiles!"
Two F-16s from the 308th Tactical Fighter Squadron, afterburners blazing, hurtled down the runway. The Fighting Falcons left a trail of shimmering heat waves as they scrambled to intercept the incoming cruise missiles.
The fighters passed smoke generators, fake aircraft, and false runway surfaces that had been hurriedly deployed by the camouflage, concealment, and deception personnel.
Two more F-16s rolled at the precise second that the first section lifted off the pavement and snapped up their landing gear. The thundering Pratt & Whitney turbojets, producing more than 23,800 pounds of thrust, slammed the highly experienced pilots into their seat backs. Each F-1.6 was armed with four AIM-9 missiles and 515 rounds of 20mm ammunition.
One hundred ten miles southwest of Homestead, two Navy Tomcats lifted off from Key West Naval Air Station and banked into a tight, climbing turn. The fighter crews contacted the airborne warning and control aircraft for snap vectors to the intruding cruise missiles.
Both flights, air force and navy, left their fighters in afterburner, pushing their aircraft to 1.5 Mach. The pilots knew they had less than seven minutes to locate and destroy the missiles.
The president, sitting stiffly at the command console, pressed his headset tightly against his ears. He could hear the airborne controller vectoring the air force and navy fighters toward the three cruise missiles.
"Come on…," Jarrett said to himself, feeling his hands ball tightly. "Knock them down."
The three air-launched cruise missiles (ALCMs) were forty-five miles south of Key Largo, Florida, when the F-14s spotted the intruding weapons. Both pilots circled to approach the streaking missiles from behind. Seconds later the air force fighter pilots had a tally on the Tomcats.
The radio chatter, incomprehensible at times, increased dramatically when the airborne controller and the flight leaders attempted to coordinate the attack. Jarrett felt his neck and shoulders become rigid when the four-star general slammed down his fist and swore out loud.
The F-16s moved to the east of the missiles, allowing the Tomcat crews a clear shot. Time was ticking away as the weapons, traveling more than 480 miles per hour, hurtled toward the southern Florida coastline. Both Tomcat pilots closed on the AS-15s, each firing two AIM-9s, then pulled into the vertical to clear the target area.
"They splashed one!" the F-16 flight leader radioed as he led his three squadron mates into their firing run.
The president listened, his eyes closed, as the F-16 pilots initiated their attack. He could hear them call their missile launches.