The Trojan Sea (43 page)

“No resources in that area.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Butler allowed.

“Speak to Congress,” the DCI replied. “They’re the ones who cut us off. The Boys got anything available?” “The Boys” were the Boys in the Basement.

“We’ve got the same problem.”

Now it was the DCI’s turn. “Why am
I
not surprised?”

“I need a current Sit Brief on the area,” Butler said.

“It’ll be waiting for you,” the DCI promised. They broke the connection, and Butler extracted his key from the phone. He locked it in his safe and headed for the Ops Center on the mezzanine level of the basement, where he held his hand against the palm reader on the steel door leading into the big vault area. The door clicked open, and he went inside, where the duty officer was waiting for him.

“The Situation Brief is on the screen,” the duty officer said, pointing to a computer in a side office. He joined Butler as they scrolled through the latest intelligence from the Camagüey sector of Cuba. “Hum,” the duty officer grumped. “How do they tell who the players are without a program?”

“They don’t,” Butler allowed. “And that’s part of the problem.” He focused on the Ignacio Agramonte Airport on the northeast side of town. “I didn’t know the Cuban air force had a fighter base there.”

The duty officer checked his order of battle, the detailed listing of Cuba’s military. “Two squadrons. One of MiG-21s, the other MiG-23s. Five or six all told may be operational, if they’re lucky.”

“Are they still loyal?” Butler asked. “Or have they gone over to the Guardians?”

“Which way is the wind blowing today?” the duty officer replied.

Butler scanned the satellite imagery of the area. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to what looked like a long straight stretch of paved highway ten miles southeast of town.

“A highway airstrip for deployment of aircraft in wartime,” the duty officer explained. “The Soviets built it for operations against Guantánamo Bay.” He pointed to what looked like a tourist pavilion on the far end. “This is a parking shelter so our satellites can’t see what’s parked there.” He traced the taxi path that led from the highway strip into the shelter and circled back to the highway. “It’s a drive-through shelter, open on both ends so aircraft can use it as a turnaround.”

“Clever devils, the Russians,” Butler said. “So what’s in the shelter?”

“Nothing.”

Butler thought for a moment. “Call Andrews and lay on an aircraft to Navy Key West.”

Navy Key West, Florida

Chalky Seagrave was working in the Gray Eagles’ office early Thursday morning when the nondescript man wearing three stars on his epaulets and carrying a briefcase walked in. The Englishman came to his feet in one easy motion, always the proper RAF officer. “Morning, sir.”

“I’m looking for Colonel William Stuart,” Butler said.

“He’s in the hangar,” Seagrave replied. “This way, please.” He led the way as Butler followed.

“How’s it going?” Butler asked.

“A bit frustrating. Been here over three weeks and haven’t flown a single mission with the Air Force. Cuban thing got in the way, and it appears that your chaps forgot we were here. We may have to go home early. Pity. The Eagles are rather enjoying it.” It was true. All around them the Gray Eagles were working, re-creating a time from the past when they were young. “There he is. Shanker! You have a guest.”

Shanker crawled out from under the Lightning and stood up. He recognized Butler from the arraignment hearing when the general had vouched for his son. The two men shook hands. “What brings you down here?” Shanker asked.

“Is there someplace we can talk?” Butler asked. “With Commander Seagrave?”

Shanker led the way back into the building, and they found a deserted office. Seagrave closed the door, and Butler came right to the point. “We found your son.”

“I didn’t know he was lost,” Shanker replied.

“Then you haven’t talked to Hank Langston lately?” The two men shook their heads. “Langston,” Butler continued, “flew Mike into Cuba and dropped him off.”

“What the hell for?” Shanker demanded.

“Let’s just say he was there on business.”

Shanker snorted. “Mike doing something like that? Bullshit.”

Butler fixed Shanker with a hard look. He had seen it before. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice even but stern, “parents can’t see their children for what they really are.”

Seagrave understood immediately. “Always a pity.”

“The trouble is,” Butler continued, “he’s wounded, and he can’t get out.”

Shanker froze. Like most fathers, he would rather be hurt himself than see one of his loved ones injured. “How bad?”

“We’re not sure. Apparently he was shot in the leg with an AK-47.”

“Do you have any idea the damage an AK-47 can do?” Shanker asked, his voice low and contained.

“Unfortunately, I do. He needs to be in a hospital.”

“Can you get him out?” Seagrave asked. Butler paused. Then he shook his head. “Bloody hell,” the Englishman muttered.

“What about Brothers to the Rescue?” Shanker asked. “I heard they were flying in and out like they owned the place.”

“The FBI shut them down.”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Shanker roared. “Whose side are we on?”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Butler replied.

“I can’t believe I’m so thick,” Seagrave muttered under his breath. “You want us to go get him.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.” Butler snapped open his briefcase and pulled out a chart. He spread it out on the table. “We know he’s under the care of a doctor in Camagüey. The city is quiet at the moment and appears to be held by the Guardians.”

“The Guardians are the good guys, yes?” This from Seagrave.

“We hope so,” Butler said. “But the DAAFAR has a main fighter base just outside Camagüey.”

“DAAFAR?” Shanker asked.

“Defensa Antiaérea y Fuerza Aérea,”
Butler explained. “That’s the Cuban Air Force. At last report they were still loyal to Castro. But that seems to be negotiable on a daily basis.”

“Are they any good?” Seagrave asked.

“Apparently not. We have an unconfirmed report that Langston downed a MiG on the way out.”

The two men stared at the general in disbelief. Shanker choked when he tried to speak. Finally he managed “Hank got a MiG? How?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” Butler said.

“That’s gonna cost us a few beers,” Shanker declared.

“So where do we land?” Seagrave asked.

Butler pointed to a stretch of paved highway ten miles southeast of town. “This is a highway airstrip the Soviets built for wartime operations against Guantánamo Bay.”

Seagrave was interested. “So what’s there?”

“Over two miles of concrete with a taxi-through shelter at the eastern end for parking and turnaround.” He pulled out three high-resolution photographs of the highway. “Satellite imagery from two days ago.” He handed them a magnifier. The two men bent over the photos and passed the magnifier back and forth as they went over every square inch of the photos.

“There’s nothing there,” Shanker said.

“And the concrete looks clean and is in good shape,” Seagrave added. “A bit narrow, though. Good thing for that turnaround. What’s the DAAFAR got?”

Butler pointed to the airfield four miles northeast of the city. “A squadron of MiG-21s and a squadron of MiG-23s plus the usual antiaircraft defenses. Our latest reports indicate they may have five or six aircraft operational. Most have been cannibalized for parts.”

“Fuel,” Seagrave said, now into it. “How far?” Fuel, or the lack of it, was a fact of life for the Lightning. Butler produced another chart used for flight planning, and Seagrave quickly spanned off the distances from Key West to Camagüey. “A bridge too far,” he said. “We’ll need a tanker for air-to-air refueling.”

“Boom or drogue?” Butler asked.

“Drogue,” Seagrave replied.

“No problem,” Butler replied.

“You can arrange that?” Shanker asked.

“If I can’t, it’s time I retired.”

The two pilots bent over the chart and worked the problem for the next hour while Butler called the station commander and arranged for an airborne tanker. Finally Seagrave straightened up. “We can do it with a tanker on the way in and a little deception. High-low profile in, low-high profile out.” As far as he was concerned, the decision was made. “We land on the highway, taxi through the shelter to turn around, and pick Mike up. Piece of cake. All your chaps have to do is get him there.”

Butler shook his head. “We don’t have anyone in the area. But we can get a message to him.”

“How?” Shanker asked.

“I believe the telephones are working in that area,” Butler replied. The two men stared at him in disbelief. Butler couldn’t help himself and laughed. “So it’s stupid. But it works.”

“If it’s stupid but works,” Shanker intoned, “it ain’t stupid.”

Camagüey

The stream of patients into the clinic finally tapered off in the late afternoon, and Dr. Silva was able to look in on Stuart. He took his temperature while changing the bandage on his leg. The row of neat stitches was mute testimony to the doctor’s skills, but the telltale marks of infection were beyond his ability to treat. Even if he had the money, there were no antibiotics available. He checked the thermometer: thirty-nine degrees.

“How bad, Doc?” Stuart asked.

Silva converted the number to Fahrenheit. “A hundred and two degrees,” he said. He methodically bathed the wound. He had seen this before, and it was only a matter of time. “We will do what we can,” he said. When he was finished, he retreated to his office and buried his head in his arms, his frustration and anger consuming him. He took a deep breath and resolved to go on. The telephone rang, and he picked it up. He listened for a few moments. “We need antibiotics,” he said, hanging up. He walked briskly back to Stuart’s room.

“There was a telephone call from Brothers to the Rescue,” he said. “They’re sending a plane to pick you up tomorrow morning, soon after sunrise.”

“Where?” Stuart mumbled.

“There’s a highway eighteen kilometers to the southeast where an airplane can land. I’ll take you there.”

“It’s too dangerous for you to go,” Stuart said.

“They promised to bring antibiotics,” Silva replied.

Stuart started to say that Brothers to the Rescue was out of business, thanks to the FBI. But the look of hope on Silva’s face kept him silent.

Navy Key West

The Lightning’s dark gray paint glistened under the floodlights as the Gray Eagles pumped a hundred pounds of fuel into each of the two external fuel tanks mounted on top of the wings. Normally each tank held 2,160 pounds of fuel but they were only putting in enough fuel to check for transfer prior to takeoff. Shanker took one last walk around. He made a swipe with his rag at imaginary dust speckles on the seeker heads of the training AIM-9 air-to-air missiles, one under each wing. For a moment he considered telling the Eagles to download the missiles and pylons. But Seagrave had said to leave them. Besides, with the missiles there was no doubt what the Lightning was. He wasn’t so sure about the external fuel tanks. Mounting one on top of each wing was contrary to logic, and they should have been slung underneath where they belonged, next to the missiles. But that was the British. He wiped at the British roundel on the side of the fuselage underneath the cockpit. Lightning One was as ready as he could make it.

Shanker climbed the ladder and strapped his flight helmet on the right seat for his son to wear on the flight back. Butler’s words about parents not understanding their children were seared in his mind. All he had ever wanted was for Mike to be a fighter pilot like Maggot. But now he knew the truth. Mike had become his own man, on his own terms, and he, Shanker had missed it. He touched the helmet, hoping it was enough. He was still on the ladder when a blue staff car drove up and stopped. Seagrave and Butler were back from the briefing with the Navy. Seagrave walked over to the Lightning while Butler opened the back door and pulled out a box. “What’s that?” Shanker asked, still standing on the ladder.

“Antibiotics,” Butler replied, passing the box up to him. Shanker placed it on the right seat and buckled it down with the helmet. He climbed down, and Seagrave scampered up the ladder to strap on the jet. Shanker stood back as Seagrave brought the number-one engine on-line. Then number two cranked. He gave them a thumbs-up and snapped his oxygen mask in place. Then he looked back inside the cockpit to finish running his checklist. He lingered a moment when he checked the external fuel tanks. Both were feeding, and the fuel gauges were functioning. His head came up and looked around as he radioed for clearance. Then he fast-taxied for the runway.

Shanker stood back and saluted the departing fighter. He glanced at the general, who was also saluting.

Seagrave snapped the gear up the moment the Lightning came unstuck. At five hundred feet he turned to a heading of 120 degrees and climbed into the early morning dark. Ahead of him the first glow of sunrise cracked the eastern horizon. He checked the master chronometer on the instrument panel: twenty minutes to sunrise. Timing was critical, for he wanted full light when he coasted in and flew low-level over Cuba. Low levels were difficult under the best of conditions, and he would never find the highway strip in the dark, much less land. Air-Traffic Control came over the radio. “Panda One, confirm destination is San Juan Airport.”

“That’s affirmative,” Seagrave transmitted.

“Are you HF-equipped?”

“Negative high-frequency radio,” Seagrave said. “VHF and UHF only.” The Lightning’s radios were line-of-sight with a maximum range of 180 nautical miles at altitude.

“Roger, Panda One. You are cleared to destination airport, flight level three-five-oh. Remain this frequency until entering Havana FIR.” Havana FIR was the Flight Information Region that extended over international waters and was monitored by the Cubans. “Contact Havana on 133.7 for flight following. Avoid Cuban airspace and monitor Guard.”

“Copy all,” Seagrave replied. “Monitor Guard,” he mumbled to himself. “Are they expecting trouble?” He hoped not. Four minutes after liftoff he was flying straight and level at thirty-five thousand feet and. 9 Mach, or 530 nautical miles per hour. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. So far the deception part of the plan was working, and he was simply routine traffic flying to Puerto Rico. “Fuel check,” he told himself, talking to remain calm. Internal and wing fuel were feeding nicely, and of course the overwing tanks were dry before he took off. One of the idiosyncrasies of the Lightning was that during a long climb all the additional fuel carried in the overwing tanks was virtually canceled out by the extra weight and the power needed to climb. But once at altitude he could make good use of the tanks. Now he had to find the tanker the Navy had promised, or it was no go. On cue he saw a flashing rotating beacon ahead and below him. He checked his position on his handheld GPS and gave silent thanks to the geniuses who had created the system. The Lockheed Viking S-3A was on station waiting for him.

Near Camagüey

The old car jerked and rattled as Silva followed the dirt track out of town. Only one headlight still worked, and he could barely follow the ruts that passed for a road. Still, he didn’t have a choice if he was to avoid the roadblocks his patients had told him about. And ultimately they were the reason he was taking the American to his rescuers. With a supply of antibiotics he could save lives. He kept looking at Stuart, deeply worried that his fever might start to spike, a very bad sign. But if everything went right, the American would be in a hospital in Florida in a few hours and the infection under control. He stopped and checked on Stuart. The bandage was clean, and his temperature was warm but stable.

Silva slipped the car into gear and edged forward. Two kilometers later he joined the main road and turned to the east. Again he checked on Stuart, who was asleep. Ahead of him he could see the glow of sunrise.
Just a few more kilometers
, he thought. Suddenly the car hit a large pothole, and Stuart groaned as the car jerked to a stop. Silva gunned the engine, and the car clunked forward with a horrendous screeching sound before it ground to a complete halt. They got out to survey the damage, and the doctor slumped to the ground when he saw the broken rear axle. “A pothole,” he said, totally defeated.