Cuba (58 page)

proceeded to get drunk, his usual evening routine.

By dawn he was passed out in his bunk in the

barracks, sleeping it off.

In Havana the next morning, Alejo Vargas

summoned the senior officers of the Cuban Army,

Navy, and Air Force to the presidential palace

for a verbal hiding.

“Cowards, fools, traitorsea”…he raged, so

infuriated he quivered. “We had them in the palm

of our hand, and all we had to do was make a

fist.

A red-handed apprehension of the American pirates

would have brought the applause and respect of the Cuban

people. A haul of American prisoners in uniform

would have given us instant credibility.

This

was our chance.”

“Senor Presidente,

the troops would not obey. They refused to attack.

When the troops refuse to obey direct orders,

what would you have us do?”

“Shoot some generalsea”…Vargas snapped. “Shoot

some colonels. Scared men fight best.”

“If we shot the generals and colonels the men would

shoot usea”…General Alba explained, and he meant

it. “The Americans are too well equipped,

too well trained, too well armed. Their

firepower is overwhelming. To fight them toeto-toe

would be suicidal, and the men know that.”

Alba’s logic was unassailable. To complain now that

the Cuban Army, Navy, and Air Force did not

do what he, Vargas, knew they could not do was

illogical and selfdefeating. No military force

on the planet could whip the Americans in a stand-up

fight, which was precisely why he had spent the last

three years developing a biologicalwarfare

capability.

Temper tantrums will get me no place,

Vargas reminded himself, and willed himself back under

control. He sat down at his desk, made a

gesture to the others to seat themselves.

“Gentlemen, we must move forward. I have

trust and confidence in you, and I hope you have the same

in me.

You are of course correctwe cannot overcome the

Americans militarily. We must outwit them

to prevail. With your help, it still can be done.”

They sat looking at him expectantly.

“The laboratory where the biological agent for the

warheads was created is in the science building of the

University of Havana. Last night the

Americans destroyed the warhead-manufacturing

facility and our six operational ballistic

missiles. All the American cruise

missiles, the airplanes, the assault troops

were employed to that end. Tonight the Americans will try

to destroy the laboratory.”

“Why did they not attack the lab last

night”…”…Alba asked.

“You are the military manyou tell me. Perhaps they

lacked sufficient assets, perhaps they did not have

political support to create massive amounts of

Cuban casualties or sustain significant

American casualtiesI do not know. The most

likely explanation is that they were afraid of

inadvertently releasing biological agents.

Whatever, the lab is still intact and capable

of producing polio viruses in sufficient

quantity to supply a weapons program. The

minds directing the American military effort will not

ignore that laboratory.”

“Senor Presidente,

what would you have us do?”

Alejo Vargas smiled. He leaned forward in his

chair and began explaining.

‘Tell me what happenedea”…Jake Grafton said

to Toad Tarkington when Toad got back aboard

the carrier. The sky was gray in the east by then, and

Toad was filthy and bone tired.

A stretcher team from the ship’s hospital met the

Osprey on the flight deck and took Rita and

Crash Wade below for examination.

Toad told his boss everything he thought lie would

want to know about the battle around silo one, about the

missile rising, holding on to the tiny open access

port, kicking off as the missile went through the barn

roof, falling….

He didn’t tell Jake t.he was so scared he

thought he was going to die, and he left out how he

felt when they told him Rita had been shot down

just in front of the barn. He didn’t mention how he

felt when he realized she was alive,

bruised up but alive. He didn’t have to tell

him, because Jake Grafton could read all that in his

face.

The admiral listened, looking very tired and sad, and

said nothing. Just nodded. Then patted him on the

shoulder and sent him to take a shower and get a few

hours” sleep.

The young CIA officer, Tommy Carmellini, sat

in the dirty-shirt wardroom with a stony face, his

jaw set. Chance was dead and he didn’t want

to talk about it.

He talked about the mission when Jake Grafton

asked, however, told the admiral how it had gone,

assured him’ that all the cultures in the building

had been destroyed.

“The problem is that the bastards may have cultures

stashed anyplace. Vargas may have a potful under his

bed, just in case.”

“Yesea”…Jake Grafton said, “I understand.”

He did understand. To be absolutely certain of

eradicating all the poliomyelitis virus in

Cuba, he would need to burn the whole island to a

cinder.

Jake went to his stateroom and tried to get a

few hours” sleep himself.

Tired as he was, sleep wouldn’t come. He

tossed and turned as he thought about the battle just ended

and the one still to come. What had he learned from last

night’s battle?

What could go wrong tonight?

After an hour of frustration, he took a long, hot

shower. This time when he lay down he dozed off.

Two hours later he was wide awake. He put

on a clean uniform and headed for his office.

Toad was already there huddled with Gil Pascal.

“Rita’s okayea”…he told Jake. “Crash

Wade didn’t make it. Amazing, isn’t it?

One dead, one just bruised.”

“Can Rita fly tonight”…”…Jake asked.

Tarkington swallowed hard, nodded once.

“She’s the best Osprey pilot we’ve

gotea”…Jake said. “She’s got the flight if she

wants it.”

“She’d kill me if I asked you to leave her

behind.”

“She probably would, and you such a handsome young stud.

What a loss to the world that would be.”

“The Osprey that is bringing the survivor from

Hue City

will be here in twenty minutes. I’ll bring

him to your cabin.”

“Hector Sedano’s brother?”

“That’s correct, sir. And the message said he

wants to go back to Cuba.”

Maximo Sedano parked his car on the pier so he

wouldn’t have to carry his gear very far. Scuba tanks,

wet suit, flippers, weight belt, mask, he

had the whole wardrobe.

He got all that stuff aboard the boat, checked the

fuel, then cast off.

The gold was in Havana Harbor; he was sure of

it. He had a chart that he had laid off in grids,

and he had labeled each grid with a number that

reflected a probability that he thought reasonable.

The area off the main shipping piers didn’t seem

promising, nor did the busy areas by the fishing

piers. The area off the private docks where

Fidel had kept his boat seemed to Maximo to be

the most likely, so that was where he would look first.

He took the boat to the center of the most promising

area and anchored it.

It was inevitable that people would see him, so he had told

everyone who asked comt he was studying old

shipwrecks in Havana Harbor. He knew enough

about that dissubject to make it sound

plausi85 could talk about the American

battleship

Maine

and three treasure galleons that went on the rocks

here in the harbor during a hurricane.

If he found it, he would not let on. If he found

the gold, he would leave it where it was until he could

come back for it with paid men and the proper equipment.

If.

Well, every man needs a dream, he reflected, and

this was his. Better this than dying defending a

ballistic-missile silo. Those fools.

The gold was near. He knew it. Sitting here on

the boat he could feel its power.

God damn you, Fidel.

Juan Sedano, @lright-brace 1 Ocho, got out

of the Osprey with a look of wonder on his face. The

airplane, the aircraft carrier, the jets and

noise and hundreds of foreigners, few of whom

spoke his languageit was quite a lot for a young man

who had never before been out of Cuba.

He got out of the Osprey wearing a set of navy

dungarees, a white T-shirt, and a

Hue City

baseball cap, and carrying a pillowcase

containing clothes, underwear, toilet items, and

souvenirs given him by the men and women of

Hue City,

everything from photographs of the ship to COULD’S and

Playboy

magazines.

Toad Tarkington met Ocho on the flight deck

and led the taliea”…broad-shouldered young man into the

island and up the ladder to the flag bridge, where

Jake Grafton and an interpreter, a

lieutenant fighter pilot of Latin descent, were

waiting. Jake took Ocho and the lieutenant

into his at-sea cabin, where the three of them found

chairs.

“When did you leave Cuba”…”…Jake Grafton

asked Ocho after the introductions.

“Six or seven days agoea”…the lieutenant said,

“he isn’t sure. He lost track of the days at

sea.”

“Tell him that Fidel Castro is dead, that his

brother Hector is in prison.”

The Spanish-speaking junior officer did so.

Ocho’s reaction was unexpected. Tears streamed

down his face. “He asked me not to leave Cuba.

He must have known that Fidel was dying, that

something was happening. I left anyway.”

He wiped at the tears, embarrassed. “I love

my brother. He is my idol, a true man who

believes in something larger

than himself. I cry because I am ashamed of myself, of

what I have done. He asked me not to go and I

refused to listen.”

“Tell me about Hectorea”…Jake Grafton

asked gently.

The admiral had expected to spend five minutes

with the boy, but the five minutes became fifteen, then

a half hour, then an hour. Ocho told of going

to meetings with Hector, of the speeches he made, of

his many friends, of antagonizing the regular priests

and the bureaucrats while he spread the message of a

coming new day to anyone who would listen, and many did.

Jake gave Ocho part of his attention while he

thought about the lab in the science building in the

University of Havana.

When Ocho finally began to run dry, Jake picked

up the telephone and called Toad. “I’m in my

at-sea cabinea”…he said, “Have the guys in the

television studio play that tape we downloaded from

the satellite this morning on the television in this

stateroom. No place else.”

“Yessir.”

Toad called back in three minutes. “Channel

two, Admiral.”

Jake turned on the television.

In a few seconds Fidel Castro came on the

screen. He was obviously a sick man. He was

sitting behind a desk, wearing a green fatigue

shirt. -

“Citizens of Cuba, I speak to you today for the last

time. I am fatally ill….”

The young lieutenant translated.

“I wish to spend a few minutes telling you of my

dream for Cuba, my dream of what our nation can

become in the years ahead. It is imperative that

we end bur political isolation, that we join the

family of nations as a full-fledged member.

To make this transition a reality will require

major changes on our part, and a new political

vision….”

Jake Grafton moved closer to the television,

set, adjusted his glasses, and studied the image of

Fidel Castro. The man

was perspiring heavily, obviously in pain, and every so

often he would move slightly, as if seeking a more

comfortable position.

“For years I have watched with admiration and

respectea”…Fidel continued, “as Hector Sedano

moved among our people, making friends, telling them of his

vision for Cuba, preparing them for the changes and

sacrifices that will be necessary in the days to come.”

Fidel winced, paused, and took a sip of water

from a glass sitting nearby. Then he continued:

“We as a nation do not have to give up our

revolutionary commitment to social justice

to participate as full-fledged members of the world

economy. We would be traitors to the heroes of the

revolution and ourselves were we to do so. In the past few

years the Church, in which so many Cubans believe,

has come to understand that one cannot be a true Christian

without an active commitment to social justice, the

commitment that every loyal Cuban carries in his breast

as his birthright. The Church has changed to join us.

Now we also must change.

“The time has come for this government to renounce

communism, to embrace private enterprise, to act

as a referee to ensure that every Cuban has a decent