Kennedy V. Badger

Posted with permission of Matt Wiser over at HPCA: Kennedy V. Badger

Kennedy vs. Badger

12 May, 1987: 1100 Hours Local Time: Cuban Air Force Operations Center, Havana, Cuba

Colonel Eduardo Toledo came into the operations center. A longtime MiG-21 and MiG-23 pilot, he was now deputy chief of operations for the entire Cuban Air Force, and right now, he was not a happy man. He had just come from a briefing at the Defense Ministry, and the news from the front in America was not looking good. The joint Soviet-Cuban offensive in Kansas, aimed at cutting off an American bulge in the lines near Wichita, was stalled, and was on the verge of failure. The Americans had been waiting for the Soviets and Cubans to attack, and had laid an appropriate welcome-and some were comparing the battle to Kursk, only this time, the Soviets were the ones doing the attacking, and the Americans had been the ones who'd had time to plan and prepare-and the Soviet and Cuban forces had suffered appallingly as a result. That didn't concern the Colonel, but what the Soviet military mission had proposed, and President Castro had agreed, did. A joint attack on the Port of Miami was being planned, and while the Soviets would handle the actual attack on the port with Su-24 Fencers, Cuba's only heavy strike regiment, the 38th Bomber Regiment, with Soviet-supplied Tu-16K Badger bombers, was also set to participate, using their KSR-2 (AS-5 Kelt) stand-off missiles to suppress the American defenses.

The rationale for the mission was obvious: the Port of Miami was where many of the weapons and equipment the Americans were getting from their overseas lackeys, such as Israel, Egypt, Turkey, and South Africa, was unloaded. Knocking out the port for a while would greatly assist the land campaign in North America, and send a strong signal to those who were supporting the Americans that there would be consequences for doing so, both now and in the future, after the inevitable triumph of the Socialist forces.

However, Toledo knew full well that things had changed: the Florida Peninsula was now heavily defended, with Key West, the Homestead-Miami area, Tampa Bay, Orlando, and the Cape Canaveral area were now guarded by HAWK and Patriot SAM batteries, many having been formerly deployed in West Germany, and that American fighters were a constant presence in Florida skies. Now, strikes into Florida required careful planning to avoid heavy losses, and even so, despite such planning, losses could-and often did-get high.

Now, he went to the situation board, and so far, all was quiet. Just the routine Cuban and Soviet fighter patrols over the island, and the Americans doing the same thing over the Florida Keys and South Florida. Occasionally, one side or the other would try a fighter sweep, hoping to draw their opponents' fighters into a free-for-all in the sky. Sometimes it worked, sometimes the would-be victim realized a sweep was on and would not give battle. More than once, American fighters had seemed to run from Soviet or Cuban fighters, only to draw the pursuers into SAM traps at either Key West or Homestead-Miami, and the Soviets and Cubans had fallen for it. And when the Cubans and Soviets tried the same trick, it rarely worked. And so far, since the Battle of Wichita, there'd been few American strikes flown into Cuba. Maybe the DMI and the GRU were right after all, and the Americans had pulled their strike-dedicated tactical fighters out of Florida and sent them to the front. What strikes had been flown, though, were apparently from carriers, and there wasn't much that could be done about that at the moment, for the carriers had one simple advantage: they could make runs into strike range of Cuba, launch their aircraft, wait for the strike to return, and after recovering their aircraft, head out into the Atlantic or the Caribbean. And so far, the Soviets and Cubans had been unsuccessful in countering the carriers, as strikes had been sent out to find the carriers, only to find empty ocean. Or the pathfinders-either Soviet Tu-95Rs or Cuban Tu-16Rs had either encountered American fighters, or had simply disappeared without getting a message out.

“Toledo, come into my office,” Major General Francsisco Estrada said from the open door of his office. Estrada was Air Force Operations Chief.

Toledo came into General Estrada's office. “Comrade General?”

Estrada was standing behind his desk. And he was clearly not in a good mood. “I've just gotten word from General Lorenzo.” General Antonio Lorenzo was the commanding general of the entire Cuban Air Force. “He's been ordered by the President to find an American carrier in the Atlantic or Caribbean and attack it.”

Toledo was stunned. “What? Excuse me, Comrade General, but did I hear correctly?”

“You did, Comrade Colonel.” Estrada spat. “Our President has decided to divert attention from what's happened in Kansas-and in case you haven't heard the latest, it's a bloody shambles. Both our forces and the Soviets tried to do to the Americans what the Germans tried in the Summer of 1943 at Kursk, and they failed. Now Wichita's the greatest tank battle ever, and the Americans have won. Now, the signs are there that the Americans have a major counteroffensive in the works.”

“Comrade General, if I may,” Toledo said. “That means an attack against Miami is all the more important. It requires the Americans to divert fighters and air-defense assets away from the front to reinforce Florida.”

“General Lorenzo said almost those exact words. And President Castro was very blunt: either carry out my orders to sink the carrier, or he would find someone who would.” Estrada said. “For now, the Miami strike is off. Order the 38th to start sending their Tu-16Rs into the Caribbean and into the Atlantic northeast of the Bahamas. Have their Tu-16Ks on alert, ready to go once a target is found.”

Toldeo sighed. “Comrade General, if I may?”

“By all means, Colonel.” Estrada said. “I've always valued your thoughts.”

“Thank you, Comrade General.” Toledo said. “Either this will be a wild-goose-chase, or it will be a tragedy.”

“I realize that, Colonel.” Estrada said. “But since the Soviets have pulled this off twice: America and Coral Sea, the President feels it should be our turn now.” He was referring to two American carriers that had been sunk by Soviet Backfire bomber strikes, and also to Castro's jealousy in that Cuba had not taken part.

“Understood, Comrade General,” Toledo said. “And if the strike aircraft cannot find a target?”

“There's always a target in Puerto Rico, if they have the fuel. Other than that, they're to come on home. Get the orders off at once.”

“Immediately, Comrade General.” replied Toledo.

38th Bomber Regiment, Holguin Air Base, Cuba: 1120 Hours, 12 May 1987:

The phone rang in Colonel Ricardo Duarte's office. He was the commanding officer of Cuba's only medium bomber regiment, and had been hand-picked for the job by General Lorenzo himself. A year in Russia, learning, along with his men, the Tu-16, before coming back to Cuba. The delivery flight had certainly been an unusual one: from the Soviet Far East to “liberated” Alaska, then to Calgary in occupied Canada, then a flight over the Great Plains under heavy fighter escort, and some bad weather, to a base in Oklahoma. After that, a trip to Houston, Texas, before the final run to Havana. There, they'd been greeted by President Castro himself, before they had gone into combat. His regiment had flown strikes with their KSR-2 missiles (AS-5a) against targets as far north as Charleston, South Carolina, up the Gulf Coast to New Orleans and Mobile, and throughout Florida as well, from Key West to Jacksonville and up to Pensacola. Not to mention going east to Puerto Rico and the U.S. Virgin Islands on more then one occasion. However, the regiment had suffered losses, for the unit had once been forty strike aircraft strong, and was now down to 30, though they had received some replacements.. The regiment's reconnaissance squadron had once numbered ten Tu-16RM (Badger-D) aircraft, and was now down to four.

Now, his men were planning their part in a proposed mission to the Port of Miami, to hopefully shut down the port for a while, and reassert some form of control over the Straits of Florida. His bombers were to shoot their KSR-2 missiles at known American SAM sites in the Homestead-Miami area, as well as at Homestead AFB, while Soviet Su-24s actually attacked the port facilities and any ships at anchor. And given the American defenses that had been in place for over a year, he didn't envy the Soviets one bit: HAWK and Patriot missile batteries, many formerly deployed in West Germany, now protected not just the Homestead-Miami area, but many key installations in Florida proper: his men had found that out the hard way, when six of his aircraft had tried to attack Kennedy Space Center the previous fall, only to find out that not only had American fighters been stationed at nearby Patrick AFB, but a HAWK battery was also in place. None of the KSR-2s had found a target, and four of the six bombers were lost with their crews.

The phone kept ringing, and Colonel Duarte picked it up. “Duarte here.”

“Colonel? This is Colonel Toledo at Air Force Operations. I'll be blunt as well as brief. Your mission to Miami is on hold. There's a new mission coming down, and you'll receive teletype orders in a few minutes.”

“What's the new mission?” Duarte asked.

“Anti-carrier.” Toledo said. “Send two of your Tu-16RMs to the northeast, past the Bahamas, and direct the other two south of Jamaica, then send them east as far as fuel permits.”

“WHAT?” Duarte yelled. “No definite targeting information, so we just send my aircraft out in the general direction of a carrier-and we don't know if any are on station right now?”

“I'm afraid so, Colonel. This comes from the top echelon of command.” Toledo said. And Duarte knew full well who Toledo meant by that.

“I understand, Colonel. But the chances of finding a carrier are slim, at best, this way. And you know that.” Duarte shot back.

“Hold on,” Toledo said. “What's the saying, 'preaching to the converted'?” He went on, though. “But we've got no choice. If you can't find a carrier, come on home.”

“At least I can thank you for that,” Duarte said. He then hung up the phone and went into the operations office, where his senior staff and senior pilots were planning the Miami mission. “Put all of that on hold. We have a new mission.” And he outlined what Toledo had told him.

“Of all the....” his operations officer said. “This sounds like a good way to get a lot of us killed. If we run into American fighters, we're easy prey, no matter what.”

“I know, Luis.” Duarte said. “If it's any consolation, I will be in the lead strike aircraft.” He turned to the map. “Send Captains Infante and Torres to the northeast sector, and have Captain Delgado and Lieutenant Moreno take the southern flight.”

“And when do we know which way to go?” his Executive officer asked.

“We'll know in the air. The aircraft are already armed, correct?”

The Exec nodded. “Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

“Good. Get the aircraft fueled immediately. We'll brief the crews while that's going on, and chances are, we'll get word of a target in the air,” Duarte said. “Now get to it!”

His staff broke up to get things going, while Colonel Duarte went back into his office. He took out a pen and paper, and then wrote a brief note to his wife. He knew full well that if F-14s, F/A-18s, or even F-8s from a carrier found his bombers, it would be a massacre.

U.S.S. John F. Kennedy (CV-67), south of the Mona Passage, 1155 Hours local time.

The supercarrier John F. Kennedy and her battle group was south of the Mona Passage, between Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic, heading to a launch point south of Cuba. The station was well known to the carrier's crew, who called it “Buccaneer Station,” for the area had been an old haunt of the famous buccaneers back in the day of men like Sir Henry Morgan, Sir Christopher Myngs, or the Chaviler de Grammont, and the name had stuck. From that station, her embarked aircraft from CVW-3 could strike targets all over southeastern Cuba, and had done so often since the war began.

Rear Admiral James Mattingly, USN, commanded what was now Carrier Task Force 44. Once the carrier passed Roosevelt Roads in Puerto Rico, she was “chopped” to the Fourth Fleet, which had been established shortly after the outbreak of war, to direct naval operations in the Caribbean. Sometimes, there were two carriers, sometimes just one, on this station, but there had been always a carrier in the area. Strikes had been coordinated with the carriers on “Devil Station” east of the Bahamas, for that was in the area of the legendary “Devil's Triangle”, and for the most part, had gone off without incident, whether natural, Soviet- or Cuban-inspired, or supernatural. Though Admiral Mattingly had a good laugh once when he checked the chart showing the carrier's course from Norfolk to Puerto Rico, and someone had carefully drawn a triangle connecting Bermuda, Miami, and San Juan.

His orders were to strike targets in Eastern Cuba, as far up as Holguin, and to do so as long as fuel and ordnance permitted, but without incurring unnecessary losses to his aircraft. And CVW-3's squadrons had gotten very familiar with Cuba over the course of the war, and many of the aviators knew the landscape like the backs of their hands as a result.

Now, he sat in his chair on the flag bridge, watching the carrier conduct flight operations. A CAP of two to four F-14s was always in the air, along with S-3 Vikings for ASW, and SH-3H helicopters for close-in ASW protection. Not only that, but SH-2 and SH-60 helicopters from the other ships in the battle group provided additional ASW protection, along with P-3C Orions based at NAS Roosevelt Roads.

Besides the carrier, Task Force 44 consisted of the AEGIS cruiser Valley Forge, completed after the war began, and having already acquitted herself well during combat in the Gulf of Mexico and the Florida Straits. TF-44 also had the services of the nuclear-powered cruiser South Carolina, along with the destroyers Semmes and Dewey for additional anti-air warfare (AAW) and the Spruance-class destroyer Briscoe as the lead ASW escort. Two Perry-class frigates, Boone and Halyburton, added to the ASW screen, and there was at least one SSN in direct support. Given the Soviet sub base at Cienfeugos, the Admiral felt that one could never have too much ASW.

And there was also ample land-based support available. E-2B+ Hawkeyes from Roosevelt Roads handled AWACS responsibilities for Puerto Rico, and VAW-77's operators had done a magnificent job in detecting aircraft inbound, and vectoring fighters onto the bandits. The Air Force had sent the PR ANG's 156th TFG to the mainland, and had been searching for a replacement to handle the island's air defense, when the loss of the carrier America had enabled the Navy to fill the role. VF-33 had survived the loss of its home carrier, and after a period of reconstitution at NAS Oceana, had deployed to NAS Roosevelt Roads to handle the air defense of Puerto Rico. And the Starfighters had been joined by their sister squadron, VF-102, once they had been reformed, deploying to the former Ramey AFB near Borinquen, which had become a Coast Guard base after the departure of the Air Force, and was now designated as NAS Borinquen. In addition, a VQ-2 detachment with both EA-3B Skywarriors and EP-3 Orions for SIGINT and other electronic intelligence activities now based there often provided raid warning by listening in on Soviet and Cuban radio traffic.

The only two neutrals in the area, Haiti and the Dominican Republic, lacked any real air power, and both sides routinely violated neutral airspace, sometimes en route to a target, or in hot pursuit. The Jamaicans, being Commonwealth members, and having had to deal with a pro-Cuban uprising in the war's early days, also lacked an air force, but Jamaican air-traffic control radars often tracked outbound Cuban or Soviet aircraft, and broadcast raid warnings in the clear (much to the disgust of both the Russians and Cubans) over the two main international emergency channels.

“Admiral?” A staff officer said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Surface radar contact, bearing three-five-eight relative, range two hundred. And closing,”

“Notify CAG, and have him get a couple of A-7s out to ID. There's no friendlies ahead of us, so it's either neutral or enemy.” Mattingly said.

“Right away, Admiral.” the staffer said.

Five minutes later, two A-7s from VA-46 launched and headed out after the contact. They were armed, of course, with two Sidewinders and six five-hundred-pound bombs apiece, typical for a Surface Combat Air Patrol.

After he watched the launch, he turned to his Chief of Staff. “Anything on sub activity?”

“No, Admiral, none at all since the last update.”

“What have we got?” Mattingly wanted to know.

The chief of staff went to a map showing the Caribbean. “Right now, there's at least one Echo-II in the Windward Passage, along with a Victor-II; and in the Mona Passage there's at least one Foxtrot, maybe two. Satellite imagery of Cienfeugos shows two cruise-missile boats, one a Charlie-II, and an Oscar, both tied up at pierside.”

“Awful nice of them. If they're still in port when we get there, we can take them out easily enough. Better to kill them at pierside than hunting them at sea.” Mattingly said.

“Yes, Sir.” the chief replied.

The phone buzzed, and the chief picked it up. “Flag Mission.” He listened for a minute, then relayed the message to the Admiral. “Admiral, this just in from the Ravens:” Ravens was the usual code for the ELINT aircraft. “They're reporting four Badgers outbound from Holguin. Two headed northeast, two headed south.”

Mattingly turned to his intelligence officer. “Thoughts?”

The intelligence officer looked at the map, then she replied. “Four Badgers sounds like a reconnaissance flight. Two headed northeast to look at Devil Station, and two coming this way. They'll strike whoever they locate first. Either Bon Homme Richard, or us.”

Admiral Mattingly looked at his chief of staff, who nodded in agreement. “Very well.” He picked up the phone to the bridge. “Bridge, this is Flag. Notify the battle group. Go to Battle Stations.”

As the General Quarters alarm sounded, he turned to his staff. “Let's get to CIC.”

Cuban Foxtrot-class submarine 914, south of Mona Passage, 1220 Hours:

Captain Joaquin Torres looked over his chart. So far, no viable targets had been found, and though his wretched Feniks sonar was puny compared to what was installed on Soviet boats like the 641B (Tango) or the new 877 (Kilo) subs, his crew was one of the best in the Navy. He'd sunk several ships in the Florida Straits in the early days of the war, and had gone as far north as Jacksonville and laid some mines, which may have accounted for a few more ships. Now, though, the ASW environment off the American East Coast was now very hazardous to an old boat like his, and with the Americans now mounting carrier strikes against Cuba on a routine basis, Naval Operations had sent his boat-and Cuba's one other 641 (Foxtrot) class boat-into the Caribbean, where the threat level was decreased, though the opportunities for other targets were lacking. The Americans and their lackeys were running convoys from the Panama Canal up past Puerto Rico, and avoiding the Windward Passage altogether. And those convoys were well guarded by destroyers, frigates, and land-based patrol aircraft from either Panama or Puerto Rico.

Now, he decided to come to periscope depth. A routine sweep, perhaps get his ESM mast up to listen for any radar signals, and maybe, just maybe, find a target. He turned to his First Officer. “Periscope depth.”

“Periscope depth, aye,” the first officer responded, and the boat came slowly to twenty meters. “At periscope depth, Comrade Captain.”

Torres nodded. “Up scope.”

As the periscope came up, he began his sweep. “Nothing here...”

Up above, an SH-3H Sea King from HS-7 was on ASW patrol, out looking for hostile submarines. The pilot was brand-new to the left seat, having been in SH-3s for a year now. And she had never stopped wondering how something could be exciting yet boring at the same time. Once, when she'd asked that out loud to her copilot, he'd replied that ASW guys had been asking the same thing since World War I. She'd never dropped on a contact, but had seen the aftermath of sub attacks more than once, going out on search-and-rescue for survivors of ships that had fallen prey to Soviet subs. Seeing that had only made her determined to find a contact-and kill it.

She was searching visually, while her copilot was actually flying the helo. The two sonar operators were listening to several sonobuoys that had been laid earlier, and so far, nothing had been found. Then she saw it at her eleven o'clock.. “Holy gawd! That's a fuckin' periscope! Pilot has the aircraft.”

The copilot noticed it too. “Got it. You want an active buoy?”

“Hell, no! Arm a fish, left search pattern.”

The copilot set it up. “Ready.”

When the pilot pushed her pickle button, a Mark-46 torpedo fell from the helo, a parachute streamed to slow the torpedo down, then after it entered the water, began searching for its prey. It soon found it.

The Mark-46 tore into the submarine amidships, just below the conning tower. And right into the central command post. Captain Torres and his crew died without knowing they were even under attack.

“A hit!” the pilot yelled. A gout of water spouted up, and soon, there was oil, wreckage, and even a body coming to the surface.

The copilot nodded, while one of the systems operators tuned things in. They heard the breakup noises, then the CRUNCH as the boat plunged below crush depth. “Well, Joanie, looks like you got yourself a sub.”

She looked at the copilot, then back in the cabin, where the two operators were looking back, grinning. “No. We all got him.”

Kennedy CIC, 1225 Hours.

“Admiral, Dipper 613 reports dropping on a periscope nine-zero miles ahead of us. No friendlies in the area.” the group's ASW officer reported from Briscoe.

“Where's that position?” Mattingly wanted to know.

“Just south of the passage itself. And if the helo hadn't dropped on it, we would've met it in three hours or so.” the TAO said.

“ID on the boat?” Mattingly asked.

“No, sir. Just wreckage and oil, plus a body.” the ASW officer responded.

The Admiral turned to his chief of staff. “Was this one of the boats in the ASW Sitrep?”

“Possible, sir. The known boat in Mona Passage was last reported at the northern end of the passage. They did have a report on a second, but it was unconfirmed,” the chief replied.

Admiral Mattingly nodded. “Get another helo out there ASAP. Find out who it was; get some wreckage, and recover that body if at all possible.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.” the chief replied.

1245 Hours: 38th Bomber Regiment, Holguin Air Base, Cuba:

Colonel Duarte strapped himself into the pilot's seat of his Tu-16 and began the preflight checklist with his copilot. So far, there'd been no word from the reconnaissance flights, but Duarte had ordered his crews to their planes, and the regiment would get word as to a target location while in the air. Each Tu-16K carried two KSR-2 missiles, plus a full load of 23-mm for the defensive guns. Lot of good that did, Duarte thought. None of his bombers-that he knew of-had been able to make use of their defensive guns, since the Americans often stayed out of range and used either Sidewinders or Sparrows to kill the lumbering bombers. Today, though, he expected to face F-14s in force, and he'd be going up against AIM-54 Phoenix missiles, and from what the Soviets had passed along, those didn't miss much against bomber-sized targets. Even if the carrier was one of the old Essex-class ships that had been reactivated and only had F-8s, they still carried Sidewinders, and they were still deadly. Colonel Duarte put those thoughts aside as he prepared for taxi and takeoff. He called the tower, and received permission to taxi and prepare for takeoff. And the whole regiment-other than one aircraft down for serious maintenance-would be right behind him.

“Tower, this is Broadsword Leader, requesting clearance for takeoff.”

“Broadsword Leader, Tower. You are cleared for takeoff. Winds are zero-eight-five for ten.”

“Roger, Tower. Broadsword Leader rolling.”

The big Tu-16 began its takeoff roll, and was soon in the air, its two engines leaving a pair of smoky trails in its wake. One by one, the other bombers rumbled down the runway and into the air, forming up into squadron formations, then they headed southeast, towards the Windward Passage.

1300 Hours: Camp 32, near Holguin, Cuba.

First Lieutenant Kelly Franklin, United States Air Force, watched the bombers take off from her compound with some interest. She had been an F-16 pilot with the 307th Tactical Fighter Squadron, before being shot down the previous January, in a raid on the port of Matanzas, and after a spell of brutal interrogation in Havana, had been sent to Camp 32. In this particular compound in the camp, were female officers-mostly air crews, but some were from the destroyer tender Prairie, sunk at Guantanamo, others were actual base personnel from Gitmo, and some had even been captured on the mainland and shipped to Cuba. Another compound held male officers, and still another housed enlisted prisoners used by the Cubans on forced labor details. Most of the officer prisoners were not used on the outside work details, but those that the Cubans wanted to work were put into such things as sweeping cell blocks or courtyards, working in the camp gardens-or the dishwashing detail.

Lieutenant Franklin was sweeping the courtyard for her cell block-most of the officer prisoners spent most of the day in their cells, with only ten or fifteen minutes outside for exercise. The routine was harsh, guards were a constant presence to prevent prisoner communications, and punishment was often severe, as she had found out firsthand. But, as she swept the courtyard, she did so in code, passing messages along, and giving encouragement to the other prisoners, especially those in solitary.

It had been the rumble of jet engines that caught her attention, and though she was not diverted from her detail-hard to be diverted with a guard following her-she did notice the bombers climbing out and away from the air base, and she counted them as they left. Thirty bombers-most of a regiment, she knew. And they were headed southeast. With that direction-southeast, she knew they likely weren't headed for Puerto Rico, but Panama, perhaps? Maybe the Navy's got somebody nearby that can send you guys somewhere else-like into the Caribbean, and you can feed the fish, she thought as she went about her chores. The thought warmed her heart as the bombers disappeared to the southeast.

1310 Hours: Kennedy CIC:

Admiral Mattingly's chief of staff came up to him. “Admiral, we have a raid warning.”

“What have we got, Commander?”

“Two sources, Admiral. First, from Kingston. Jamaican air-traffic-control radar picked up a large formation of aircraft headed southeast from Cuba. Second, Ravens came through again. Right now, it's a regiment-sized force, headed southeast. They should be passing over the western tip of Haiti anytime now.” the chief replied.

“Too bad Baby Doc doesn't have a real air force, otherwise he'd have his people splash a few,” the Admiral observed.

The chief paused. “Uh, yes, sir.”

“All right.” Mattingly turned to his air wing commander. “CAG?”

“Admiral, with your permission, I'll shoot off the Alert Fives, put four more on Alert Five, and have everybody else at Alert Fifteen. In a half-hour, the Alert Fives go, and then the rest. Assuming Badgers, we have an hour at least.” CAG responded. By training he was an attack pilot, but knew full well that defending the battle group came first. “Except for the ASR alert birds, all the A-6s and A-7s have buddy stores and tanks. We can keep the Tomcats up all day if necessary.”

Mattingly nodded. “Do it.”

CAG picked up the phone and relayed the orders. Four F-14s from VF-32 shot off the catapults and into the air. Four more, these from VF-14, taxied into position, ready to launch. “Admiral, we have now eight Toms on CAP, and four more on the cats, ready to go. Everybody else is in the ready rooms.”

“Very well, CAG.” Mattingly responded. He knew that CAG would be mounting an Alert Fifteen Tomcat himself, leading his people into combat as a CAG should.

1315 Hours: Clansman 304, South of the Dominican Republic:

Lieutenant Commander Kevin “Popeye” Doyle brought his A-7E Corsair down towards the surface contact. He was the Operations Officer for VA-46, and he'd seen combat in the Caribbean before. He'd flown strikes in support of the Grenada operation back in '83, and in addition, that cruise had also seen the ill-fated Lebanon strike, and he'd also gotten some combat there-combat time in two locations on the same cruise? The last time that had happened was World War II! Then once the big war had gotten started, he'd been flying combat missions in the Med, Iceland, and now, back to the Caribbean. Some war, the thought.

His wingmate was Lieutenant (j.g.) Shannon “Buns” Weaver, a “nugget” on her first cruise. This was her first combat deployment since graduating from VA-174, the A-7 RAG, at NAS Cecil Field. Apart from walking around with NBC gear wherever she went, and making sure she knew where air raid shelters were on base, it had just been like peacetime, or some old hands in the RAG had said. She had been graduated early from Annapolis, and sent to Pensacola for flight training. While earning her wings, the ban on women flying combat had been lifted, and she'd asked for either A-6s or A-7s after being winged. They'd sent her to Corsairs, and she fell in love with the SLUF. Once the war was over, the Corsairs were likely to be replaced by F/A-18s, but until then....

“Buns, Popeye,” Doyle called. “Contact at eleven o'clock. Low.”

“I see it, Popeye.”

“Buns, time for some OJT. I'll cover you. Fly down and make the ID.”

“Copy that.” And Buns rolled in and flew down to check out the contact. She could see it was a medium-sized freighter, headed east. And it looked like it was flying a Swedish flag. Buns rolled right and came around for another pass. Yes, there it was, a Swedish ensign from the stern, and another ran up from the superstructure. She pulled up and back to altitude.

“Popeye, Buns. It's a Swedish freighter. Headed east.”

“Copy. Form up on me, and I'll call it in. Starbase, this is Clansman 304. Surface contact is a neutral freighter flying Swedish flag.”

“Roger that, 304. You are to RTB. Repeat, RTB. Buster.”

Down below, the crew of the freighter Gotland watched the American plane fly around their ship, then pulled up and away. It was nothing new: they'd been buzzed by American, Cuban, and even Soviet aircraft every time the ship came into the war zone. But the Swedish government insisted on right of passage for neutral ships, even though there were hardly any neutrals that dared enter Caribbean waters-not unless they joined a convoy headed to or from the Panama Canal-because sometimes, Soviet subs had been known to attack neutral shipping. The Americans had gotten used to the neutrals tagging along, but when the ships arrived at the Canal, those ships were given a very through inspection-not by Panamanian authorities, but by the U.S. Navy-which still guarded the Canal. The rules were simple: either submit to the inspection, or turn back. Nobody fooled around with the safety of the Canal at risk, and the neutral captains were told by their home governments to go along. This trip, though, they hadn't had that problem. First, a stop in Bluefields, Nicaragua, to load coffee, and then a stop in Honduras to load Bananas. With luck, they'd be out of the war zone in two or three days, and headed across the Atlantic.

1325 Hours: South of Hispaniola:

The two Tu-16Rs flew to the southeast, about forty miles apart. Both were using their ELINT gear and, on occasion, their radars, to look for any ships. A single track would mean a freighter, and since most freighters-or tankers-in these waters belonged to the local neutrals, they were usually left alone. But several ships either meant a convoy, or an American battle group, and that meant combat. And a half-hour behind the pathfinders was the strike group, waiting on targeting information. So far, apart from a couple of surface contacts that were almost certainly freighters, there was nothing yet.

Unknown to the Cubans, their position and status reports-radioed back not only to the strike force, but to Eastern Air Command at Camaguey, were being picked up by the EA-3s and EP-3s orbiting over Mona Passage and south of Puerto Rico. That information was relayed to Kennedy CIC, and a rough plot of the Cuban reconnaissance aircraft was able to be worked out.

Captain Simon Delgado sat back in the pilot's seat of his Tu-16, letting the copilot fly the plane. So far, this mission had been boring, and there'd been no sign of the Americans. Maybe Colonel Duarte was right after all, and this would be a wasted effort. But still....maybe there was something out there. He asked his senior ELINT operator. “Anything?”

“No, Comrade Captain. Nothing at all.”

He turned to his copilot. “Jose, this might just be another wasted effort. Just like last week. Remember? Someone reported a carrier east of the Bahamas, and all we found was empty ocean.”

The copilot let out a laugh. “Maybe some fishermen saw a tanker and thought it was a carrier? Who knows?”

As the Badger flew on, an E-2C Hawkeye from VAW-126 picked up the incoming aircraft. First one, then two tracks came on the scope. The information was relayed to Kennedy CIC, where the entire battle group-other than the single Hawkeye- was still under full EMCON (Emissions Control: no radar or radio signals of any kind unless absolutely necessary).

“Admiral, looks like the Badger-Ds are coming in.” Mattingly's intelligence officer reported.

“What have we got?” asked the Admiral.

“Two tracks. One's about eighty miles south of Santo Domingo, with the other forty miles south of the first.”

“That's it. Flush the remaining Tomcats, get some A-6s and A-7s up with buddy stores. And kill the Badger-Ds.”

1327 Hours: Gypsy 202.

Lieutenant Phil Copely and his RIO, Lieutenant Commander Joe Parsons got the message from the Hawkeye: Kill the Badgers. “Gypsy 202 copies.”

As the Tomcat broke orbit, its wingmate turned to follow. Gypsy 207, with Lieutenants Mark Richard and Jeri Hansen, pulled in alongside 202. Both Tomcats scanned the sky with their TCS camera systems, while their AWG-9 radars remained off. Sure enough, about seventy miles away, the head-on outline of a Tu-16, with a huge amount of smoke behind it, appeared on the TCS in both aircraft. It was 207 that had acquired a target first, and thus they would take the lead. “Jeri, light 'em up and lock 'em up,”

“Gotcha.” Hansen said. She powered up the powerful AWG-9 radar and had the Tu-16 squarely in her radar picture. “There's two of them.”

“We'll take one. Phil and Joe get the other one.” Richard said.

“Copy. We've got him! Range sixty miles.”

“Fox Three!” Richard called on the radio as he fired, and a Phoenix missile dropped from the Tomcat's belly and ignited. Then he did it again, “Second Fox Three,” releasing a second missile.

In Delgado's Tu-16, an electronic-warfare operator was checking his screen. Then what he saw made him turn pale. “F-14 radar!”

“What?” Delgado asked.

“We have a fighter radar locked on us.” the operator responded, his voice now calm and cool. “Jamming pods are activated.”

“Get a warning out!”Delgado screamed at his radio operator.

There wasn't time. Flight time for the Phoenix missiles was a mere sixty-five seconds. The first missile blew the tail off the Badger, while the second exploded in the former bomb bay, and hot fragments from the missile sliced into the aircraft's fuel tanks, turning the Tu-16 into a ball of fire.

“Splash!” Hansen called. Not only had she seen it on radar, but she'd also seen it on the TCS camera.

“That's a kill,” Richard confirmed.

Just as he made that call, Gypsy 202 locked up the southernmost Badger and fired. This time, the missiles needed only fifty-six seconds to track the Tu-16 and explode it.

“Starbase, Gypsy 202. Splash two Badgers. Returning to station.”

1330 Hours: Kennedy CIC:

“That's the reconnaissance flight, Admiral.” the intelligence officer said.

“No arguing with that. Now, will the main strike abort, or keep going?” Mattingly asked.

“Depends, Admiral. If the Air Force is calling this one, they'll abort. If it's somebody higher up....”

“They'll press on,” Mattingly finished. He turned to his Chief of Staff, who nodded.

“I don't think they'll abort, Sir.. These are Castro's boys, and they'll keep coming in.”

“Agreed,” the intelligence officer said. “Admiral, we can expect the raid in a half-hour.”

Mattingly nodded. He looked at the plot, and saw the Tomcats taking their CAP positions. Twenty-four F-14s, along with a dozen A-6s and A-7s rigged as buddy tankers, were now airborne. And an EA-6B from VAQ-140 was also in the air, to jam missile-guidance radars. “Any word from Bon Homme Richard?”

“No, sir.” the chief replied.

That carrier group had also received the warning of the Badger reconnaissance flight, and had simply moved to the east, while leaving a couple of F-8s to deal with the Badgers, if they were encountered. As it turned out, one of the Tu-16s was found by the Crusaders, who shot him down. The second Badger, unaware of the fate meted out to their squadron mates, flew on, completed its planned search sweep, and turned for home.

1355 Hours: Broadsword Leader, south of Hispaniola:

Colonel Duarte led his regiment on its southeasterly track, and occasionally turning on their missile radars to search for any targets. So far, nothing yet, and no word from the pathfinders since their last check-in, when they cleared the Haitian shoreline. Where are they? Duarte asked himself. He began to wonder if this was another wasted effort, when his copilot said, “Time to climb, Comrade Colonel.”

He meant climbing to 10,000 meters. Or 33,000 feet. Duarte nodded, and began to climb. As the Badgers did so, they also switched on their radars to search for targets.

1400 Hours: Kennedy CIC:

“Starbase, Seahawk 601,” the Hawkeye controller called. “Multiple bandits, bearing Three-four-zero relative, angels thirty and climbing.”

Mattingly nodded at that. “Here they come.”

The group's AAW officer on Valley Forge called it. “Multiple contacts bearing Zero-Zero three relative. Bandit count is estimated at thirty-plus. Picking up Short Horn radars. Designate Raid-One.”

“Admiral?” the chief of staff asked.

“That's it. Light everybody up. And sic the Tomcats on the bombers.” Mattingly ordered.

The carrier and her escorts lit up all of their radars, and the Hawkeyes began to vector the Tomcats onto the approaching bombers. “All Camelot and Gypsy elements, this is Seahawk 601. Your vector is two-zeven-zero to two-seven three, for ninety-five. Kill. Repeat: KILL.”

CAG acknowledged the call, “Gypsy 200 copies. Let's go get 'em.”

Tomcats acknowledged the calls, and began lighting up the Badgers with their AWG-9 radars. Some of the fighters closed into get visual ID with their TCS systems before shooting, while others simply let loose with their Phoenix missiles. And within a minute, Badgers began to explode and drop out of the sky.

Broadsword Leader:

“What the...” Duarte yelled as the first two Tu-16s exploded. The bombers lacked the RWR gear the pathfinders carried, and thus the first hint they were under attack was when the first two bombers exploded. He yelled into the radio, “Scatter!”

Then his weapons officer shouted. “Target to the east! Single ship, bearing zero-zero-two relative.”

“It must be a picket ship! Target him and fire!” Duarte yelled.

Before his weapons officer could do just that, a Phoenix missile tracked down Duarte's bomber and blew the front cockpit off, and the headless bomber tumbled out of the sky, trailing fire.

More and more bombers took Phoenix hits and either fell out of the sky, or simply exploded. Three bombers, though, managed to find the single contact and launch their missiles, before turning away. Four others kept on coming, despite the sight of their comrades dropping out of the sky, and closed the carrier group. One of the four Badgers got a radar contact on one of the escorts and fired, and the other three followed suit, before Tomcats closed in with Sparrows and Sidewinders, killing all four Badgers.

Kennedy CIC:

“Vampire! Vampire! We have inbound missiles!” the AAW officer called.

“Here we go,” Mattingly said.

The Aegis cruiser began shooting SM-2 missiles at the inbounds, and thanks to data links, South Carolina began doing so as well. Very quickly, a dozen SM-2s smothered the eight incoming AS-5s, and soon there were no more inbounds. But there were six others targeted on the surface contact to the west, the ship ID'd as a neutral. Two late-launching Tomcats were vectored onto the missiles, and they launched four Phoenixes, killing three missiles. Three others closed the contact. And the various CIC crews watched as the missile symbols closed onto the ship, and two merged with it.

Not far from the Swedish freighter, the two A-7 pilots who'd ID'd the ship watched in horror as two Kelt missiles slammed into the Swede. . One missile landed in the ship's stern, while a second slammed into the freighter's midships section, just aft of the funnel. Both one-ton warheads simply ripped the hapless freighter apart, but she didn't sink. Not immediately, anyway.

Commander Doyle watched from above. “Buns, follow me in. Call out if you see anything in the water, like a boat or raft.” When the raid warning had gone out, they had been told to orbit and wait for the all-clear. Both pilots had a ringside seat to the freighter's demise, as well as seeing aircraft fall out of the sky to the west.

“Roger that.” And the two A-7s went down onto the burning, drifting freighter.

“Good lord....” Doyle said as he made his pass. The stern of the Swede had been blown off, and the midships section looked like somebody had taken a meat cleaver to it and simply gouged a huge portion out of it. And the whole ship from the bridge aft was afire.

“Starbase, Clansman 304. That Swedish ship took two hits. She's still afloat, but barely. No sign of any...wait. One raft in the water.” Doyle called in.

“Clansman 307 confirms. And there's a second raft now, and two survivors just went over the side.” Buns called.

“Starbase copies. Clansman 304, orbit and assume on-scene command. We'll get some help out there real quick.”

“Roger. Have fuel for nine-zero minutes.” Doyle replied.

“Admiral, we'd best get a couple of helos out there ASAP.” the chief of staff said.

“Do it. Notify sick bay to stand by to receive survivors.” Mattingly ordered.

The AAW officer then called in. “Three bombers off scope to the west. Tomcats unable to pursue. Vampires all accounted for. Raid-One is now history.”

“All right,” Mattingly said. “Have four Tomcats top off from tankers, and keep them airborne. Bring everybody else home and get them turned around ASAP.”

On deck, flight ops resumed, as two SH-3Hs lifted off on the search-and-rescue, while Tomcats and tankers whose jobs were now done, began to form up in the pattern for landing. Within minutes, those aircraft due for recovery had trapped, and the carrier resumed normal flight operations.

“Admiral, recommend securing from General Quarters.” the chief of staff said.

“Make it so,” Mattingly nodded.

1445 Hours, Clansman 304:

Commander Doyle watched as the two SH-3s came in for the rescue. Both helos hovered, and their rescue swimmers went into the water to recover survivors. The swimmers worked quickly but cautiously, not knowing if any of the survivors were injured, and indeed, one of the survivors had to be lifted into a helo with a rescue litter. Once the survivors were aboard, the helos turned for the carrier. And as the two Corsairs turned to follow, the freighter did a heave, a final gout of smoke and flame erupted, and she plunged into the deep, stern first.

“Starbase, Clansman 304. The freighter has gone down. Helos are inbound with survivors, and we are RTB at this time.”

“Copy that, 304. Come on home.”

The two A-7s peeled away and headed east, back to the ship. They beat the helos back to the carrier, and both Popeye and Buns watched from Vulture's Row as the two helos arrived with their human cargo. Sure enough, one was a definite stretcher case, two others needed assistance, but four were able to walk off the helos unassisted. Popeye turned to Buns and commented, “Wrong place, wrong time.”

“This war doesn't play favorites,” Buns noted.

1610 Hours: Camp 32, Holguin, Cuba.

The rumble of jet engines got Lieutenant Kelly Franklin's attention again. This time, she was in the cell she shared with Navy Lieutenant Tyler Brookes, who'd been an A-7 pilot from the carrier Oriskany, until she'd been shot down in November, during a raid on Santiago de Cuba. Both had spent the better part of the day in their cell, despite having had work details-for Franklin, it had been sweeping the courtyard, while Brookes had been on the dishwashing detail. Now, the rumble of engines got their attention, and Franklin went to the cell window and peered through the bars.

“Bombers. And they're coming back.”

“Any underwing cargo?” Brookes asked.

“Nope. But thirty went out. And here's three coming back.” Franklin said. “They must've run into a buzz saw.”

“Want to bet those were Tomcats?” Brookes wondered.

“No takers.” Franklin said. She got down from the window and went to the wall. “Clear me.”

Brookes nodded and went down to the floor and peered through the crack between the cell door and the floor. “Clear.”

And Franklin began to tap to the next cell, and then went to the other wall and repeated the tap. Soon, the word would go from their cell block to the next one, and eventually, even if it took a week, all over the camp. And finding out that the Cubans had gotten a bloody nose in the air was a definite boost to everyone's spirits.

1625 Hours: 38th Bomber Regiment Operations Room, Holguin AB, Cuba.

Captain Manuel Ochoa stormed into the operations room in a rage. He was the senior ranking pilot to survive the mission, and to say that he was highly displeased was an understatement. That anger was also tempered with the fact that he was now the senior ranking pilot in the 38th-or more correctly-what had been the 38th Bomber Regiment, now only five strike aircraft and one reconnaissance aircraft strong. The first man he saw was the regiment's intelligence officer. “WHAT DID YOU SEND US INTO?” he screamed.

“Comrade Captain,” the intelligence officer-a Major-replied, “What are you talking about?”

“It was a massacre! There's no other way to describe it. Aircraft falling right and left, missile trails all over the place, and all we have to show for it is an attack on a possible picket ship. Twenty-six aircraft and crews lost! And for what?” Ochoa yelled, not caring in the slightest if he was insubordinate.

“Mother of...” the major replied. He went to the phone and got on the line to Air Force Headquarters and relayed the mission results. The major nodded, and held the phone for Ochoa. “Havana wants a word with you, Captain.”

Ochoa took the phone and said, “This is Captain Ochoa. Who am I speaking to?”

“Comrade Captain, this is General Estrada at Air Force Operations.” the voice on the other end replied.

“Comrade General...” Ochoa said.

“I'll be blunt, Captain. What happened out there?” Estrada asked.

“Comrade General.....there is no more 38th. Thirty aircraft-all of our serviceable bombers-went out. And only four returned. The reconnaissance flight was also hard hit: only one has returned.” Ochoa said.

“I see.....” the voice on the other end trailed off. “And mission results?”

“Comrade General, we found a ship that may have been a picket ship, and several aircraft did launch missiles against it. Several did hit, and we're claiming a kill. Four more aircraft closed with the carrier group, and they did launch, but none of those aircraft have returned.” Ochoa concluded.

“So, one ship sunk, and unknown results in the actual strike on the carrier?” Estrada asked.

“That's correct, Comrade General.”

“All right, Captain. You're now acting commander of the 38th. I'll see about getting you the rank that goes with the job, and work on getting some replacement aircraft.” Estrada said. “Right now, just be glad you're alive.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

With that, General Estrada hung up, leaving Ochoa holding the receiver. He then hung up and turned to the intelligence officer. “I don't think we'll ever go up against a carrier again. Not after today.”

“Comrade Captain, I believe you're right.”

1700 Hours: Sick Bay, U.S.S. John F. Kennedy.

Admiral Mattingly came into Sick Bay with Captain Darrel Cramer, the carrier's captain. They found the head of the Medical Department, Commander Neal Walton. “Commander, how are the survivors?” asked the Admiral.

“One is critical. Two others are still in surgery, and the rest are recovering,” Walton said. “The one critical case ....his chances are no better than 50-50.”

“Can we talk to any of them?” Captain Cramer wanted to know.

“One who's doing fine is more than willing to talk: he's the ship's Fourth Officer.” Commander Walton said. “He's been demanding to speak with a senior officer, as a matter of fact.”

Both the Admiral and the Captain nodded. Mattingly said, “Let's see him.”

Commander Walton escorted the two senior officers to the room, which had a Marine guard. The guard nodded and opened the door. Inside, sitting on a bunk, was Sven Kossborg, the Gotland's Fourth Officer. He turned and saw the three officers come in. “Mr. Kossberg,” Walton said, “This is Admiral Mattingly, the battle group commander, and Captain Cramer, the JFK's captain.”

“Admiral, Captain...” Kossberg said. “Thank you for rescuing us.”

“No thanks necessary, Mr. Kossberg. Even in wartime, the rule of the sea still applies.” Mattingly said. “Do you know what happened?”

“No,” Kossberg shook his head. “The aft lookout said he saw aircraft in the distance, and that one or two were falling in flames. Then he shouted that there were smoke trails closing in on us. The Captain ordered a message sent that we were under attack, but I have no idea if it went out. The next thing I know, two explosions, and I am in the water.”

“You're lucky,” Walton said. “First-degree burns, and a broken ankle.”

Kossberg looked at the cast on his ankle. Yes, it could be a lot worse. “How many?”

“Only seven,” Walton said. “And one is in very critical condition.”

“Who attacked us?” Kossberg asked.

“Cuban Tu-16 Badger bombers.” Mattingly said. “They probably thought your ship was a radar or ASW picket, and since they were under attack from our fighters, you were first in line.”

“Of all the....” Kossberg said. “How soon can we go ashore?”

“You'll have to stay aboard ship for the time being. None of your crew are in any shape to travel, I'm afraid.” Commander Walton said. He looked at the Admiral. “However...”

“However,” Admiral Mattingly said, “I'll notify my superiors, and they'll pass on your names to the Swedish Ambassador in Philadelphia. Your families, at least, will be notified.”

“Thank you, Admiral.” Kossberg said. “And all this for a mixed cargo of coffee and bananas.”

The door opened and a Navy Nurse-one of those newly assigned to the carrier, asked for Commander Walton. He listened to her, looked at Mr. Kossberg, then came back. “Mr. Kossberg, I've got some bad news. The one crewman in critical condition?”

Kossberg had an idea of what was coming. “Yes?”

“I'm afraid he's dead. There was only so much we could do for him. Even if we'd gotten him flown to a base in Puerto Rico, even they might not have saved him.” Walton said.

“I see...I am sure you did all that was possible. If it's possible, his body should be sent home to his family.” Kossberg said.

“Again, I'll inform my superiors, and those arrangements will be made,” Admiral Mattingly said.

The next day, the Kennedy/CVW-3 team moved into position and launched strikes into Southeastern Cuba, while the Bon Homme Richard/CVW-21 team did the same. A five-day series of strikes against targets deeper into Cuba went on, with Cienfeugos, Banes, and other targets being hit, before the carriers broke off to replenish. Each carrier air wing lost several aircraft, with Kennedy losing two A-6s and four A-7s, and Bon Homme Richard losing an F-8, an RF-8, and three A-7s.

Fallout from the failed strike reached into the corridors of power in Havana, when General Lorenzo reported the failed strike to Fidel Castro. That failure, plus the bad news coming from the front in North America, led to Lorenzo's dismissal. Furthermore, the Swedes were not pleased that one of their ships had been sunk by Cuban aircraft, with Fidel's refusal to apologize for the sinking led the Swedes to recall their ambassador “for consultations”, and was one of several factors leading to the fall of the Palme government in Stockholm. After Palme lost a no-confidence vote in the Swedish parliament, his successor apologized to the U.S. Ambassador for the downturn in U.S-Swedish relations that had occurred under the Palme government, and that if the U.S.-and by extension, its allies, wished to purchase NATO-standard small-arms, tank, and artillery ammunition from Swedish firms, the new government would have no objections to such purchases, and if additional systems, such as the RBS-70 SAM, were on the Allied shopping list, any objections in parliament to the new policy would be easily overcome.