Sean smiled. “I get the picture. Those things can go haywire?”
“They’re mechanical. Things go wrong,” Joe explained, not giving the whole picture. He knew the limit.
Sean went wide-eyed at the thought. A nuclear-tipped ICBM gone wrong! “They must have hushed that up real good.”
“They did.” Joe didn’t say that a local newspaper in the Great Plains had nearly picked up on the real story, and would have, had it not been for some fancy footwork by the DOD. It was just as well. The country, or the world for that matter, didn’t need to know the real story. Neither did the Delta captain.
Sean felt more comfortable with Anderson, even with the knowledge that he, at times, could be a real ass. What counted was ability, and he had that, Sean reasoned, or he wouldn’t be among them. “Guess you’ll earn your pay on this one, too.”
“Just doing my job,” Joe responded. “Like you.”
Nineteen
THINE ENEMY
Blackjack held his SIG up for the troops to see. “I want no mistakes here. No screwups. So watch me close.” He slid the receiver back until it emitted an audible click. “No rounds in the chamber and no magazines inserted.”
“Isn’t that being a little less than careful?” Quimpo asked. “I mean, the Cubans, no matter what anyone says, they’re not our friends.”
“Precisely why we’re doing this.” McAffee released the slide back to forward, giving the pistol its normal shape, and tucked it into the holster high on his thigh. “If there’s any antagonism I want our weapons safed. There will be no reactionaries in this group…on this team. Mr. Anderson, would you please verify that everyone’s weapon is empty and safe?”
Joe made the rounds of the eight team members, two drivers, and the major, taking each weapon in hand personally.
McAffee continued, “The word we have is that the Cubans will cooperate, but keep this in mind. First, we’re only going to be on their soil a short time, God willing, and second, if we do anything to prevent our chance to take that bird down, then we’ve screwed ourselves and a whole lot of innocents.”
Everyone was quiet now. Their weapons were checked and holstered. Soon they would remove them and load the magazines with 9mm frangible ammunition, rounds preferred by counter-terrorist troops who might find themselves firing among tens or hundreds of hostages and needed to avoid ricochets or over-penetration of their intended targets. Special equipment, the latest available, was at their disposal, but the lowest common denominator was each man and his weapon, the SIG in this case. Each man, isolated from his conscience for the duration of the mission, was a killer. It was a sobering and sometimes horrid thought to those not connected with such antiterrorist efforts that men could have such a cold and calculated purpose. To kill. It was their only function. Kill the bad guys. Kill them at the first opportunity so that they would never again be able to wreak terror upon innocents. Kill them. One and all. Dead. Leave no chance of retaliation or retribution, and take no prisoners. If a terrorist tried to surrender, he or she was dead. No second thought A shot, preferably just above the bridge of the nose, would be fired, giving a long last look at life through the blast of a muzzle flash. Every man knew his job, trained for it hoped for a chance to do it and prayed that he never would. Their existence was a dichotomy of desires, but one that they were uniquely able to live with, for they knew that at the moment of truth, they were as close to death as their adversaries.
The Starlifter’s co-pilot loosened his harness a bit and leaned forward, looking out the side window to the right and behind the aircraft.
They were there, though he could see only one. There would be another on the left side, symmetrical with its wingman, about a hundred feet off and fifty feet behind the wingtip, slightly above the big jet.
“I got one on this side,” he said. “Friendlies, right?”
The pilot a thirty-year Air Force veteran, liked the sarcasm in the lieutenant’s voice. “You got it. Compliments of Fidel himself.”
Another look satisfied the lieutenant’s curiosity. All he could make out in the darkness were the anti-collision strobes underneath the much smaller aircraft “The light pattern looks like a twenty-nine,” the rights eater commented, referring to the MiG-29 Fulcrum, a compact Soviet-built fighter.
“Well, the Cubans have a bunch of those, for sure. You can bet whatever’s under the wings doesn’t hold extra avgas.”
“Right sir.”
It was a good guess. If the light had been better they would have been able to clearly make out the AA-10 Alamo air-to-air missiles on each wing.
The navigator swung his mask over his mouth. “We’ve got glide slope in two minutes. Suggest descend to eight thousand and come left to two-five-zero.”
The pilot acknowledged the recommendation and began nosing the Starlifter down toward the waters south of the Florida Keys and turning it toward Havana. He made the adjustments slowly, giving his somewhat unwelcome wingmen ample time to come clear and modify their flight profile.
“We’re cleared straight in, right?” the airman operating the com console asked, for verification only.
“That’s a roge,” the lieutenant answered. “No tower contact required.”
“Let’s take her in,” the captain said. “Everything by the numbers. Com, let the major know we’ll be on the ground in fifteen.”
The time evaporated rapidly. McAffee felt his web seat shift slightly to the left as the pilot flared the aircraft for touchdown, then, five seconds later, the main gear, just forward of the team, grabbed the runway. The nose wheel came down a few seconds later, and with no fanfare, the Americans had come to Havana.
Thunder One rolled to the end of the runway and turned left on the last taxiway, following a decidedly military-looking aircraft-service vehicle. Atop it was a rack of rotating amber strobe lights and in its bed were two soldiers in Cuban Army smocks and carrying the unmistakable Kalashnikovs familiar to all American military men.
As the aircraft’s roll slowed, the team went through their final checks. Graber checked each Humvee, paying particular attention to the stowed equipment.
“One is loaded,” he announced loudly. “Charges are present.” Sean moved back — actually forward — and looked over the number two vehicle. Everything was ready in this one, too, though there were no charges. That had been decided during the final planning stage. It was better, they figured, to have the two very special frame charges together, ready to be used when needed, considering that one would be useless. “Two is ready.”
“Fire them up!” the major ordered. The Humvees rumbled, belching a short spurt of smoke which was vented out through the Starlifter’s filtering system. “Okay, listen up. When the ramp goes down we’re going to move to cover. Where that is I don’t know. The word is that we’ll be directed somewhere. I want everyone in the buggies when they roll out. I’ll be on foot. Do not pass me. Understood?” The drivers gave a thumbs-up in reply. “Mr. Anderson, you’re with Captain Graber’s section. Keep track of your gear.”
“Got it,” Joe answered, trying not to sound nervous.
“All right. We’ll do a final talk-through once we have a spot to lay up. Remember, the bird’s going to be here in about twenty minutes, and we don’t know how long the turnaround is going to be, so everyone is ready to go now — right?”
“Right!”
Joe looked around, embarrassed almost that he was feeling a twinge of nerves. This was really going to happen.
“Mount up!”
The vehicles filled quickly. McAffee walked the few yards to the hinge of the stem ramp and waited for the aircraft to stop completely. A minute later it did with a last forward lurch. Immediately the outer part of the rear opening swung upward, allowing streams of light from numerous vehicles to bathe the inside of the aircraft. The ramp dropped next. It touched the tarmac with a metallic clang.