Their route funneled them into the Columbus Channel and along the southern coast of Trinidad. While descending the formation to their roll-in altitude, Wilson could make out the yellow flare stacks of offshore oil rigs in the distance, their flaming tongues flickering over the black velvet water. With the lightning ahead and the flares burning below, the view could have been a scene out of Dante’s Inferno. Wilson craned his neck to look for the others, abeam and behind, and saw some formations. After the confused cauldron they had just emerged from, he had to find out if his strikers were intact.
“Slashes, any alibis?”
He received no response, a good sign in this instance. He queried the others.
“Volts, Lances, you okay? Any alibis?
“Volts up. No alibis.”
“Lances up. No alibis.”
Amazed at their good luck, Wilson breathed a sigh of relief. Could San Ramón throw anything at them that would be worse than the line of storms they had just survived? Looking north, the weather seemed to curve away and appeared reduced compared to this brutal segment, and Wilson would take them through the sovereign airspace of Trinidad to avoid the heaviest stuff on the egress. Screw ‘em if they don’t like it, he thought. We’ll ask for forgiveness. Devil — and Washington — owed him that. After punching through the thunderstorm line, after jumping through flaming hoops to get off the deck — and doing it all on time — their leadership owed them a lot.
When the elements fanned out into position as they neared San Ramón, the Blockers started chattering about an airborne contact on their nose. The target was fifty miles away, and Wilson noted increased lighting flashes in its vicinity. On closer inspection, he realized the flashes were not from lightning. They were from AAA.
CHAPTER 51
At 100 feet and lights out, the Seahawks sped over the waves, gunners at their mounts, and scanned the horizon for trouble.
The crews, and the eight SEALs, aboard the two aircraft had received twenty minutes notice to pack a change of socks and a dopp kit. They received orders to launch for a one-way trip to Tobago. Once there, they would fill the aircraft gas tanks and stand by for tasking if any fighter went down from Skipper Wilson’s initial strike, or from Skipper Martin’s strike later in the night. One of the squadron mechanics volunteered to go in order to help service the helos, and the mission commander was handed a wad of cash as well as a letter from Devil himself that requested they be given “all assistance” from the local authorities. The SEALs were there to help rescue any downed aircrew and to convince, if necessary, the airport fueling personnel to cooperate. Before launch, the ordies had delivered another miracle, arming each Sierra with two Hellfire missiles and a pod of rockets, as well as full belts for the door gunners.
Devil Davies was taking a gamble, hedging that SOUTHCOM would approve this covert, no-notice action to make Tobago an impromptu lily pad for Coral Sea strike aircraft. He ordered the aircraft to launch for the two-hour run to the airport at Crown Point on the island’s southern tip. From there, the helos would be gassed and available for tasking. The aviators and SEALs were ready for anything, and SEAL Lieutenant Rich Keller was overall mission commander. LT Sean Sullivan, as the senior aviator and pilot of Flintlock 612, called the shots for the helos.
Staying well out to sea, the aircraft avoided Barbados to their west and did their best to stay away from any surface craft. Twenty minutes ago they had come upon a sailboat, which appeared out of nowhere in the darkness, requiring evasive action to avoid the mast. In the vicinity of Tobago they dodged the surface craft they encountered, but once they made the left-hand turn to the southeast, small craft were everywhere, even at night. Now, with five minutes to landing, the aircraft had to ignore them.
Sullivan led the helos to a position south of the runway at Arthur Napoleon Airport. Through his goggles he saw the fuel farm, the bright lights of the terminal behind it. A small turboprop commuter was the only aircraft of significance on the ramp, and there were a handful of general aviation aircraft parked on the far side of the runway. The fuel farm was on the south side, and once he led the Seahawks abeam it, he would initiate an easy buttonhook to the left and slow to a run-on landing on the narrow access road. The gunners and SEALs were locked and loaded, and the pilots did not radio the tower to ask for permission.
Sullivan keyed the ICS and turned toward his co-pilot, LTJG Pete Sanders. “Sandy, ready to turn in?”
“A-firm,” he replied.
“Okay, here we go…. Holding about 30-degree angle of bank. Rising terrain. Surf line.”
“Visual. Palm trees at our nine o’clock, coming to ten. A bunch of them, about 75 feet tall.”
“Okay, visual. See any airborne traffic?”
“Negative.”
The graceful Sierras rolled out on the road and flared their noses high to bleed airspeed as the pilots placed them as close to the fuel farm as they could. One of the gunners reported seeing airport ground crew on the ramp, but the crew didn’t seem excited. No rotating lights of police. No headlights of any kind heading their way. No one seemed to know they were there.
Once the wheels touched, the SEALs jumped out to take perimeter positions. Sullivan keyed the AWACS orbiting in the vicinity.
“Flintlock six-one-two reports beach blanket,” he said, transmitting the briefed code word for Safe on deck, Crown Point. Within minutes, the message was reported to Davies in flag plot.
The aircraft idled, rotor blades whipping through the moist air. While the SEALs secured their perimeter, the pilots stretched their legs in their cockpit seats to relieve the tension of the last two hours. Sullivan checked his watch. Skipper Wilson’s strike was to be on target in five minutes. According to his nav display, the target was over 100 miles away on a direct line over Trinidad. After they got gas, they would have at least 200 miles ahead of them to avoid Trinidad and go feet dry on the planned ingress route of the strike aircraft. If any of the jets went down, Sullivan’s helicopters were at least two hours away from helping them. The aircrew were exhausted, but they all had the same thought.
First fuel, but before that… a candy bar.
As Hernandez stepped into the bunker, the watch captain approached him with a troubled look. Outside, he heard the sound of two of his F-16s in burner as they, one after the other, thundered down the runway for takeoff.
“Mí general, we have large formations of aircraft to the east, about 100 miles. They’re coming at us.”
“One hundred miles! You’ve had no earlier detection than that?”
“Mí general, they’ve come out of a line of storms! We cannot see through thunderstorms. They flew right through them!”
Hernandez was amazed. Flying through such a line was suicidal for an individual fighter, and the Americans had done it in formation? They can ignore the forces of nature?