Chapter 40
February 20, 1984
1902 hours
Off the Florida Keys
USS Independence had turned into the wind to launch its fighters and attack planes after the two B-1A bombers had met up with them. There were two E-2C Hawkeyes in the air to coordinate, with a third on the deck of the Independence. It was the largest such demonstration against Cuba since the Missile Crisis 22 years ago, although there was no actual attack that time, there certainly would be now. The night was cloudy and moonless, the sort of weather that bombers live for. The B-1s were flying as low as they dared, practically skimming wavetops as they headed for the shoreline and the thick SAM (surface-to-air) cover that was certain to greet them. Above them, the A-7E Corsair IIs and F-14 Tomcats were leading the way in, ready to go after that SAM cover and any patrolling fighters. As those who were involved in the Cuban Missile Crisis remembered, the SAMs and anti-aircraft flak were heavy then, and with the advent of more advanced SAM technology now, it was only going to be worse.
The Corsair IIs had barely reached the shoreline when their radars started picking up sweeps from two SAM batteries. Spreading out, the pilots triangulated the locations of those batteries and four Shrikes were fired at them, scoring hits and knocking them out of the picture. With Havana right up against the coastline, a narrow path was now open to José Martí International, home to a whole lot of MiG-23s (and, unknowingly to the Americans, the Blinders which had wreaked havoc on them the day before), several of which were taking off to meet the incoming threat. The Tomcats took lead once the Hawkeye picked up the MiGs lifting off, and unlike the last battle, this wasn't a fair fight. The Tomcats had their Phoenix missiles, and they obliterated the MiGs before the Soviets and Cubans could even get a lock on them. Turkey shoot, thought the Tomcat flight leader. The Intruders coming up behind started going after planes on the tarmac, radar domes, anything, really, that was exposed. Crewman huddled in reinforced hangars while pilots stayed in their bunker, waiting for the onslaught to end so they could try and get a response up, when they all heard a very loud, very close roar of jet engines, followed by Mk84 bombs dropping on the runway, and then, seconds later, on their hangars, several of which crumbled or caught fire despite their reinforcement. The B-1A bomber made a hard turn and circled back, taking aim at the flight tower and the terminal on the second pass, scoring more hits. The pilots exchanged a quick high-five/low-five and gunned the engines to head back for open water before reserves at Playa Baracoa Air Base nearby were able to catch up with them.
To their east, the path to Santa Clara Air Base was significantly tougher. Further to the south and more inland than Havana, the MiG-23s were up in force, and the SAM coverage was thicker. The Corsair IIs found themselves engaging in air-to-air combat with the MiGs before they could go after the SAM batteries. Unlike their counterparts in Europe, who were dealing with incredibly dense fighter traffic and accidentally shooting down some of their own planes as well, these Soviet batteries had a clearer picture to work with, and the A-7Es soon found themselves dealing with SAM fire as well as pursuing MiGs. The Tomcats jumped into the fight, and jets on both sides began falling from the skies, with scant few being able to eject in time given the lower flight levels a good amount of the planes were flying at. One of the Corsair IIs was able to fire off two Shrike missiles, thinning out the SAMs. The Intruder squadron leader decided he had no choice, and ordered the A-6Es down to as low as they could safely go, hoping to stay under the radar envelope. While not entirely successful, a loss of only two planes was as optimal as the situation would allow. Just as in Havana, the Intruders went after exposed areas first, but unlike Havana, they didn't have many planes to target. Santa Clara was also a single runway air base, and as the Intruders were raining down Mk83s, they realized that there were no bombers here. The small size of the airfield meant there wasn't hangar room for many planes, and the Soviets had apparently moved them between the last satellite sweep and now. The squadron leader radioed back to the mission controller in the Hawkeye, and the second B-1A was called off. As it were, the Intruders had done a number on the airfield, and as it lacked some of the protections the Havana attackers had gone against (reinforced hangars, large tower, etc.), the smaller 1000-pound Mk83s were more than sufficient to the task.
As the Intruders turned away from their bombing, some of them broke off to use their Vulcan cannons to help their brethren in the dogfights taking place above. The Soviets, facing unexpected reinforcements from the Intruders, decided discretion was indeed the better part of valor, and broke off, headed southwest towards Cienfuegos, the closest air base they could land at. It was home to a helicopter regiment typically, but it would do under the circumstances, the deputy Soviet flight leader thought (his commander had been shot down and was, he thought, probably safe on the ground, having successfully ejected from his plane). Overall, considering the circumstances, the raid had gone exceedingly well, with a substantial amount of fighters and interceptors removed from combat. Future raids would become easier to execute, thought the American mission commander. Now, someone at NRO or DIA needs to tell me where those fucking bombers went. That was the real target and we didn't hit any of them.
*****
2052 hours
The Pentagon
Washington, D.C
Once the Hawkeye landed back on the Independence, the mission commander went to the secure communications room and dialed a secure line back to the NMCC. The call lasted nearly fifteen minutes as he was debriefed by General Gabriel and Admiral Watkins, and once the part about the bombers no longer being at Santa Clara was brought up, Gabriel left the conference room to confer with DeLauer and Weinberger, who'd returned from the White House. "Sir, Jim and I have been debriefing the mission commander from Operation ROUGH RIDER, and we've got some bad news," Gabriel said. The Secretary of Defense had the resigned look of a man who'd heard far too much bad news for days, weeks, months. "Alright, Chuck, what is it?,' Weinberger asked. "The raids went very well. The airfields are pretty ripped up, we got a whole bunch of MiGs, and wrecked the tower and a bunch of the hangars in Havana as well." "Okay, so what's the bad news? That sounds like it went damned perfectly," interrupted the SecDef. "Sir, the problem is that the bombers weren't at Santa Clara. Between our last satellite pass and the raid itself, they moved them all out of there. They had the entire MiG force at the base up in the air, and that's where we took the most losses. Almost half of the A-7 squadron, along with a third of the Tomcat squadron and two Intruders, all got shot down by MiGs or SAMs around Santa Clara. The mission commander chose to wave off the B-1 when the Intruder squad leader radioed to report no bombers present. The 'Truders tore the place up pretty good. It's not as big or sturdy as Havana, so the B-1 wasn't necessary, especially with the bombers gone. I suppose I don't need to tell you what this means, do I?" concluded the Air Force COS.
"No, you sure as hell don't. They must've gotten word somehow before we got there, either through an intercept or somebody here leaking. Goddammit! We expelled everyone believed to be KGB or DGI [note: DGI is the Cuban Intelligence Agency], and these bastards somehow got word." "They might've gotten lucky and moved them, anticipating we'd strike back," Taft interjected. Gabriel glared at the young Deputy SecDef. "Son, I don't believe in luck. If we had luck, the Soviets wouldn't have come storming across the central plain of Germany. If we had luck, those dumb bastards wouldn't have shot down two civilian airliners in six months' time. We don't have luck. We've got the biggest threat ever facing this nation, and those bombers can make a short flight and kill millions with nukes attached to their wings. We need to find out when they moved those bombers, where they moved them, and how the hell they found out we were coming for them." Gabriel turned on his heel and walked to the comms room. He needed to get a Blackbird in the air ASAP.
*****
1814 hours (local)
Edwards Air Force Base
Antelope Valley, California
The SR-71 Blackbird. The fastest, highest-flying, coolest-looking surveillance plane ever devised. It had an airspeed of 2,200 miles/hour, which meant that within 75-90 minutes, it could travel the distance from Edwards to Cuban airspace. It would then land at Cape Canaveral to get the film developed quickly. At Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma, a KC-135 Stratotanker was lifting off to refuel the Blackbird so it could stretch its flight envelope long enough to cover all of Cuba (the SR-71 was a notorious fuel hog). Lieutenant Colonel Brad Woods was the pilot for the flight, the deputy wing commander, with Captain George Bell as the Reconnaissance Systems Officer in the backseat. General Gabriel wanted an experienced man at the controls for this mission, and Woods had over one thousand hours in the Blackbird. At 1820 hours local, 2120 on the East Coast, Woods fired the engines and took off into the dark skies above America, leaving the flaming trail of jet fuel behind it on the runway that the Blackbird was famous for. The crewmen didn't know it, but it was the last one of these anyone in America would ever witness again.
Woods piloted across the Southwest, cruising at 45,000 feet above the cloud cover. He took a few minutes to look around, taking in all of the stars twinkling in the sky. God, I'm so lucky to get to do this. We're in the middle of a world war, and I'm just up here with my rizzo and the stars. It's a shame I could never take Meredith up on one of these flights. She'd almost literally be over the moon. Woods chuckled to himself a bit at that last thought. "Hey, George, you ever stop to appreciate the views we get up here?" "Sir, right now I appreciate that we're not getting shot at. A year ago I was at RAF Mildenhall. I'm damned lucky to be here with you....I guess I should look around. Not too many chances to be up here without thinking about SAMs, right?" "George, let an old man," Bell started laughing at that. "Let an old man give you a lesson: always take time to appreciate the quiet moments. You never know when the last one will be."
Fifteen minutes later, the SR-71 met up with the KC-135 over south Texas to top off its tanks so it could complete its run with fuel to spare. As the Blackbird headed out over the Gulf of Mexico, an engine bearing seized on the right-side engine. Flying at Mach 3, the sudden seizure of an engine rotating at thousands of RPMs was nothing short of a disaster. Engine blades broke off and sliced open hydraulic lines, causing wing controls to malfunction, and the plane began to corkscrew downwards. As they passed through 10,000 feet, Woods was able to stabilize the plane just long enough for both men to eject, and they parachuted out into the waters of the Gulf. A transponder deployed with their ejection to mark their location. As he hit the water, Bell thought, the colonel was right. Wish I'd enjoyed those flights more.
