Cuba (41 page)

to arrive punctually. If he was already there, Chance,

Carmellini, and die SEAL’S could leave now. If

die sub wasn’t at die rendezvous, die two

boats would have to spend die afternoon and evening rolling hi

die swell, hoping and praying die Cuban Navy

didn’t come over die horizon.

We’ll wait,

Chance decided, glancing at his watch again, though

Lord knows die waiting was difficult.

It would be a serious mistake to underestimate

Alejo Vargas. The Cuban secret police

had over forty years of practice finding and arresting

people who sneaked onto die islandone had to assume they

were reasonably good at it.

Chance didn’t want to get into a

firefight with die Cuban military or secret

police. Leaving a body behind would be bad, and leaving

a live person to be captured and tortured would be

absolute disaster.

If die Cubans came riding over die

hill, Chance and his entourage were leaving as quickly as

possible. They could take their chances on die open

sea. That decision made, Chance turned his attention

back to die computer screen hi front of him.

Two months ago when he and Carmellini were handed

this mission, William Henry Chance would not have bet

a plugged nickel they could pull it off. Polish

die Spanish hi

over a hundred hours of classes, be in the right

place at the right time when the power went off, break

into Alejo Vargas’s safe in secret-police

headquarters, carry out the files that Vargas had

spent twenty years accumulating, the files he could

trade for political support after Castro’s

death.

Amazingly, they had pulled it off. Every file that

went into the flames was one Vargas would never use.

Chance glanced at Carmellini, who was using a stick

to stir the fire, keep the paper burning.

Yep, they had pulled it off. And stumbled

upon a biological weapons program and

Fidel’s collection of old Soviet ballistic

missiles.

Six missiles. No locations.

The locations must be well camouflaged or the

satellite reconnaissance people would have seen them long

ago. On the other hand, if they knew what they were

looking for…

Chance went to the door, called softly to the SEAL

lieutenant. dis”…Mr. Fitzgerald, would you set

up die satellite telephone again?”

“Of course. Take about five minutes.”

“Thank you.”

While the lieutenant was getting the set turned on

and acquiring the corn satellite, Chance continued

to check the computer. When he hit a file labeled

“Trajectories”…he sensed he was onto something

important.

The file was a series of mathematical

calculations, complex formulas. Hmmm…

Let’s see, if one could figure out where the

warheads were aimed, then one could use the known

trajectory to work back to the launch site. That’s

right, isn’t it?

“Mr. Chance, they’re on.”…The

lieutenant handed him the satellite phone.

In Washington, D.c., the director of the CIA

and the national security adviser listened without comment as

the voice of the agent in Cuba came over the speaker

phone. He gave them the news as quickly and

succinctly as he

could. They had the secret-police files, were

burning them now though the task would take several more

hours, they had a computer containing a file of what

appeared to be missile-trajectory calculations,

and there were at least six ballistic missiles in

Cuba, maybe more. Chance gave the men in

Washington the names of the missiles.

“Well doneea”…the director said, high praise from

that taciturn public servant.

When the connection was broken, the national security

adviser and the CIA director sat silently,

lost in thought. The spymaster was thinking about Alejo

Vargas and the possibility he might seize control

of the government in Cuba upon the death of Castro. The

other man was thinking about ballistic missiles and

microscopic viruses of poliomyelitis.

“Another Cuban missile crisisea”…muttered the

adviser disgustedly.

The CIA director grinned. “Why

don’t you look at the silver lining of this cloud for a

change? Fate has just presented us with a rare

opportunity to clean out a local cesspool. We

ought to be down on our knees giving thanks.”

The adviser didn’t see it that way. He knew the

president regarded the upcoming death of Castro as

a political opportunity, a chance to change the

relationship between Cuba and the United States and

escape the bitter past. Perhaps the president would

decide to just ignore the weapons, pretend they

didn’t exist. Then he could hold out the olive

branch to the Cubans, get what he wanted from them,

get credit for progressive leadership from the

American electorate, and negotiate about the

weapons later.

Tommy Carmellini was burning the last of the files

when William Henry Chance noticed that two of the

fishing boats were no longer in sight. “When did they

leave”…”…he asked the naval officer, Lieutenant

Fitzgerald.

“Several hours ago, sir. I noticed one of them

going west

under sail then, but I confess I haven’t been

paying much attention to the others.”

Carmellini checked his watch5:30

P.m. Still three or four hours of daylight

left.

“Anything stirring out here”…”…Chance asked.

“No, sir. Pretty quiet. An old man and a

girl walked along the road toward the monastery about

three P.m., then turned and went back the way

they had come.”

“Did they see your men?”

“No, sir.” -

“Well…”…In truth, Chance was nervous. He

felt trapped, completely at the mercy of forces

beyond his control. He took a deep breath, tried

to relax as Carmellini stirred the ashes of the fire

to ensure that all the paper he had thrown in was totally

consumed.

“Would you like some MRE’S, sir”…”…the navy officer

asked. “My men and I are getting hungry.”

Surprised at himself for not noticing his hunger

sooner, Chance said, “Why not”…”…He hadn’t had a

bite since last night.

They were munching at the rations when a helicopter

came roaring down the coast from the west. The craft was

doing about eighty knots, Chance guessed, when it

went Over the old monastery. It continued west for a

half mile or so, then laid into a turn.

“Shitea”…sd Tommy Carmellini.

“Lieutenant, I think he’s onto usea”…Chance

told the SEAL officer.

“If he is, his friends can’t be far awayea”…the SEAL

said. Standing in the center of the room so he was hidden in

shadow, he used the binoculars to look at the

chopper.

“Two men, one looking at us with binoculars.”

“Maybe it’s time we set sailea”…Chance said as he

folded the laptop and zipped it into its soft carrying

bag. Then he put the whole thing in a waterproof

plastic bag, which he carefully sealed.

“Stay down, stay clear of the windowsea”…the

lieutenant

said, and darted out the door away from the chopper.

Chance and Carmellini sat on the floor with their

backs to the window. The chopper noise came closer

and closer, then seemed to stop. It sounded as if the

craft were hovering about a hundred feet to the east of the

crumbling building. The rotor wash was stirring the

remnants of the roof thatch that Chance could see.

Then he heard the sharp crack of a rifle. Two

more reports in quick succession. The tone of the

chopper’s engine changed, then he heard the sound of the

crash.

He risked a peek out the window. The wreckage

of the helicopter lay on the rocks by the water’s

edge. Amazingly, one of the rotor blades was still

attached to the head and turning slowly. A wisp of

smoke rose from the twisted metal and Plexiglas.

Chance could see the bodies of the two men slumped

motionless in what remained of the cockpit. As he

watched the wreckage broke into flames.

“Sorry about thatea”…the lieutenant said as he burst

into the room, “but the copilot was holding a radio

mike hi his hand. I think it’s time we bid Cuba

a fond farewell.”

“Let’s goea”…Chance agreed.

The boats were fast, at least thirty knots. In

the swell of the open sea beyond the peninsula they bucked

viciously. Salt spray came back over the men

huddled behind the tiny windscreen every time the boat

buried its bow.

Chance settled back, wedged himself into place with the

computer on his lap.

They were well out to sea, heading due south, when a

Cuban gunboat rounded the eastern promontory and

gave chase. A puff of smoke came from the forward

deck gun and was swept away by the wind.

The splash was several hundred yards

short.

The lieutenant at the helm altered course

to put the gunboat dead astern. The Cuban

captain fired twice more; both rounds fell short.

Then he apparently decided to save his ammunition.

The boats ran on to the southwest.

Tommy Carmellini caught Chance’s eye and gave

him a huge grin.

Yeah, baby!

The distance between the speedboats and the gunboat slowly

widened over the next hour. After a while the

gunboat was only visible as

a.

black spot on the horizon when the boat topped

a swell. As the rim of the sun touched the sea, the

Americans realized the crew of the gunboat had

given up and turned back toward-the north.

Then they heard the jets. Two swept-wing fighters

dropping down astern, spreading out as they came racing

hi, one after each boat.

“MiGo-19’sea”…the lieutenant shouted. “Hang

on tight.”

The shells hit the sea behind the boat and marched toward

it as quick as thought. Lieutenant Fitzgerald spun

the helm, the boat tilted crazily, and the

impact splashes from the strafing run missed

to starboard.

The jet that strafed Chance’s boat pulled out right

over the boat, no more than fifty feet up. The

thunder of the engines was deafening.

The jet made a climbing turn to the left, a

long, lazy loop that took it back for another

strafing run. His wingman stayed hi trail behind him.

“Turn west, into the sunea”…Chance shouted

to Fitzgerald, who complied. The other boat did the

same. The boats came out of their turns with the

sun’s orb dead ahead, a ball of fire touching the

ocean.

The jets behind overshot the run-in line, so they

made a turn away from the boats, letting the distance

lengthen, as they worked back to the dead astern position.

Fitzgerald handed Chance his M-16. “As he

pulls out overhead, give him the whole magazine

full automatic.”

Chance nodded and lay down in the boat.

As the jets thundered down, Fitzgerald turned the

boat ninety degrees left, then straightened. The

MiGo’s left wing dropped as he swung the nose

out to lead the crossing boat. He steepened his dive.

As the muzzle flashes appeared on

his wing root, Fitzgerald spun the helm like a

man possessed to bring the boat back hard east,

into the attacker.

The shell splashes missed left this time: Chance

let go with the M-16 pointing straight up, in the

hope the MiGo would fly through the barrage.

Whether any of his bullets hit the jet as it

slashed overhead, he couldn’t tell. The plane

pulled out with its left wing down about thirty

degrees, but its nose never came above the

horizon. Perhaps the sun dead ahead on the

horizon disoriented the pilot. The left roll

continued as the plane descended toward the sea, then it

hit with a surprisingly small splash. Just like that, it

was gone.

The other jet was climbing nicely. The pilot had

found his target: the other speedboat was upside down

in the sea.

Fitzgerald turned toward the upset boat, kept

his speed up.

The wingman took his timehe must realize this would be the

last strafing run because the light was failing, and perhaps

he was running low on fuel.

He came off the juice, kept the power back, so

on this pass he was doing no more than 250

knots, a pleasant maneuvering speed.

Fitzgerald turned his boat so that he was heading

disstraight for the jet. He had the throttle wide

open. The jet steepened his dive.

The pilot held his fire and fed in forward stick.

Fitzgerald spun the helm as far as it would go and the

boat laid over on its beam in a turn.

The jet didn’t shoot, but began pulling out.

William Henry Chance let go with a whole

magazine.

Clbser and closer the plane dropped toward the

sea, the nose still coming up, contrails swirling off the

wingtips from the G-loads. The belly of the MiGo

almost kissed the water, came within a hair’s

breadth, and then the jet was climbing into the sky