"Okay, Doc," Flannagan said into his mask, "let's go upstairs. Cross under and go loose deuce."
"Roger," Wellby replied, raising the nose to match his leader as he transitioned to the tactical formation.
"The Hawkeye is RTB," Gunsmoke One radioed, then spoke to his wingman. "Smoke Two, boards… now." Both descending pilots popped their speed brakes to hasten their letdown.
"What's with the E-2?" Flannagan asked, concerned about not having the Hawkeye airborne early warning aircraft to call targets for them. The Grumman E-2C all-weather surveillance aircraft provided the eyes for fleet defense. Fighter and attack crews relied on the twin-engine turboprop to warn them early about bogies in the area.
"Their starboard engine went south on 'em," Gunsmoke One answered. "Gitmo approach is up this freq, so they'll work you as Strike."
"Copy," Flannagan replied, rolling out on a heading of ninety degrees three miles south of the runway.
"Strike," Flannagan radioed, glancing at his wingman. "Smoke Three and Four with you."
"Roger, Smoke," the controller acknowledged calmly. "We have confirmed MiG activity over Antonio Maceo. The Strike officer is on his way over from the Hawkeye. Your orbit is the Gitmo two-nine-zero radial, angels fifteen at twelve DME. Squawk onefour-two-seven."
"Wilco," Flannagan responded as he banked the Skyhawk smoothly to the left and set the new transponder code. "Check switches safe."
"Four… safe," Wellby radioed, interrupting his thoughts about a cancelled leave. He had been scheduled to be the best man at his brother's wedding in two days.
Neither pilot had any idea what had caused the sudden alert. The ready room speculation had ranged from a terrorist attack to a possible invasion of the naval base. A senior navy captain from CINCLANT headquarters had arrived during the afternoon. He had immediately assumed the responsibility of on-site commander for the base and acted as Strike control.
Flannagan and Wellby leveled their Skyhawks at 15,000 feet and settled into a racetrack pattern twelve nautical miles west of the air base.
"Smoke Three and Four," the controller radioed, "Strike has arrived, and we show new MiG activity eighteen miles southeast of Holguin."
"Roger," Flannagan responded, checking his fuel supply. "I have a visual on three MiGs over Tony Mack."
"We show four targets," the controller said. "The two high contacts are flying a triangle pattern, and the low targets are meandering around north of the city."
Flannagan banked slightly to focus on the fast mover closest to the ground. "We've got a good moon, but I only see one down low. His buddy must have his lights off."
"Roger that."
The two Skyhawk fighter and attack pilots continued their orbit as Flannagan concentrated on the MiGs and counted the minutes till refueling.
"Ah… Smoke," the controller said cautiously, "we've got multiple bogies — looks like three targets — closing from three-onezero."
Flannagan's head snapped to his four o'clock position. "How far out?"
"Sixty-five miles," the radar operator said. "They're the MiGs from Holguin."
"Roger," Flannagan replied, thinking about the afternoon rules of engagement (ROE) briefing. The pilots could not fire unless fired upon. "We're going to the tanker."
"Roger, Smoke," the tense controller replied, offering assistance. "The Texaco is at your ten o'clock, angels one-seven."
Flannagan shoved his throttle forward and looked out of his canopy to the left. He could see clearly the Grumman KA-6D's oscillating anticollision lights. "Smoke has a tally on the tanker."
The bright moonlight would be a godsend for the Skyhawk pilots. Night refueling required a great deal of concentration and coordination. Any light would help the pilots' depth perception.
"Gunsmoke Three and Four," the tanker pilot radioed, "we're heading zero-seven-zero, two hundred fifty indicated, coming port."
Flannagan checked his airspeed. He would have to bleed off the extra forty-five knots as he closed quickly inside the tanker. "Smoke flight," Flannagan radioed, "will take four grand each."
The KA-6D pilot clicked his mike twice and extended the refueling drogue. The shuttlecock basket, attached to the fueling hose, slid out from under the twin jet and extended fifty feet.
"Call stabilized," the tanker pilot ordered as he disengaged the autopilot. He would hand fly the aircraft during the refueling procedure.
"Wilco," Flannagan replied, then spoke to his close friend and wingman. "Doc, cross under and plug first."
"Roger," Wellby said, adding a small amount of power and lowering the TA-4J's nose. He passed under his leader, emerging on Flannagan's right wing.
One minute later both aircraft eased into position on the Intruder's left wing. Flannagan checked his wingman's position, then keyed his radio. "Stabilized."
"Cleared to plug," the tanker pilot radioed as he rechecked the fuel-transfer panel. It was set to pump two tons of fuel into each TA-4J.
Wellby moved forward and flew his fixed probe smoothly into the drogue on the first try. The delicate maneuver required a tremendous degree of finesse with the stick and throttle. The fuel transfer went quickly, and Wellby slid out of the basket, moved seventy feet from the KA-6D's right wing, and watched his flight leader.
Flannagan tanked without a hitch. He watched the refueling light wink off, then disengaged from the basket and slid astern. "Thanks for the drink," Flannagan radioed as Wellby eased back into position on his right wing. "Strike, Smoke flight is returning to our CAP posit."
"Roger," the controller answered. "The inbound contacts are three north of Dos Caminos, closing rapidly."
Flannagan eased his throttle to 98 percent. "Coming up on the power."
"Four," Wellby responded, staring at Flannagan's dull gray Skyhawk.
"Smoke, Strike," the controller said with a hint of anxiety. "The two high targets over Antonio Maceo appear to be joining the inbound flight of three."
Flannagan scanned the sky to the northwest as he descended back to 15,000 feet. After a few seconds he picked out the MiGs' blinking anticollision lights. "Tally on the flight of two," Flannagan reported, then spotted the other three bogies. "I have the Holguin inbounds, too."
The two MiG groups rendezvoused in a staggered trail formation and made a wide, sweeping pass two miles west of the Navy TA4Js. Flannagan and Wellby watched the MiGs pass 3,000 feet higher as they settled back into their pattern.
"Four, let's step up two thou—" Flannagan stopped abruptly, not believing his eyes. Had the Cuban MiGs flown into a cloud? Hell no, he realized quickly — the thin wisps of clouds were well above them.
"Strike, Smoke flight," Flannagan radioed uneasily. "The comrades just turned off all their exterior lights. I've lost them."
"Copy, Smoke. Stand by—"
"Negative," Flannagan said brusquely. "Launch the spare, and get the other two shooters back up."
"Gunsmoke Three," a different voice said, "this is Captain Murchison. Return to base and orbit. Smoke Five is rolling and will join up overhead."
"Wilco," Flannagan replied as he banked smoothly toward the naval base.
Seven seconds passed before the original voice sounded in Flannagan's helmet. "Smoke flight, we have two targets breaking away from the MiG flight. They are approaching you at… they're accelerating at your seven o'clock, twelve miles."
"Shit," Flannagan said inadvertently over the radio. "Doc, come hard port and go combat spread."