Cuba (59 page)

job that pays a living wage and every enterprise pays

its fair share of taxes…”

In less than a minute Fidel reached his

peroration:

“Hector Sedano is the man I believe best

able to lead our nation into this future.”

The tape ended anticlimactically a few

seconds later. A tired, haggard Fidel

spoke to someone off-camera, said, “That’s enough.”

Jake Grafton reached out, turned off the

television.

Ocho was stunned. “I thought Fidel was dead!”

“He is dead. He made this tape before he died.”

“That was not a live performance?”

“No. A film, a videotape.”

“And you have itff”…Ocho’s eyes were wide in amaze-

STEPHEN COONTS

ment. “They must have played the videotape on

television, and you copied it. But if it has been

on television in Havana, why is Hector in

prison?”

“The tape has never been on televisionea”…Jake

said. “As far as I know, you are the very first Cuban

to see it since it was made.”

Ocho stared, trying to understand. Finally he asked,

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I was wonderingea”…Jake Grafton said, “if you

would take it back to the lady who gave it to us. I

believe she is your aunt by marriage,

Mercedes Sedano?”

“Mercedesff”…Ocho gaped. “She was Fidel’s

mistress. Why did she give you the tape?”

“You will have to ask her. Will you return the tape

to her?”

“Of course. When do you want me to do this?”"…This

evening, I think. By the way, are you

hungry?”"…Oh, yes. I like the hamburger.

Muy bueno.”

Jake and the lieutenant took Ocho to the flag

wardroom for lunch. Ocho talked of baseball, of

Cuba, of his brother Hector, and Hector’s

dreams for a free Cuba. He talked even with his

mouth full, so the lieutenant who was translating

didn’t get much to eat. Jake let the young

Cuban talk.

After lunch the admiral asked for Tommy

Carmellini, so Toad Tarkington went looking for

him. Carmellini was asleep. He smelled of

liquor, which Toad ignoredafter all, the man was

a civilian.

When Toad got Carmellini into the admiral’s

office, he asked the chief petty officer to bring,

coffee, which Carmellini accepted gratefully.

“I’ve been thinking about your commentea”…Jake

Grafton said.

“What comment”…”…Carmellini asked between sips of hot

black coffee.

“About Vargas having jugs of cultures under his

bed.”

“Umm.”…Carmellini drank more coffee. When he

saw that the admiral was expecting him to say more, he

shrugged. “That was a flippant comment. I’m

sorry.”

Jake Grafton scratched his chin. “I thought it

was… profound, in a way.”

“How’s that?”

“We can’t burn the island down.”

“That would be impracticalea”…Carmellini agreed.

“We’d have eleven million Cubans to house and

feed afterwards.”

“So where does that leave us?”

Tommy Carmellini searched the faces of the naval

officers.

“There’s a presidential directive against

assassinating heads of stateea”…the CIA man said

cautiously.

“I have seen references to such a directiveea”…Jake

Grafc ton said, “though I haven’t read the thing.”

‘Trust me. It exists.”

“Friend, I believe you. That’s sound public

policy and I don’t have anything like that in mind. Our

objective is the lab and the cultures: that’s more

than enough to keep us busy. You’ve been there before and know

the layout. Will you go back with us tonight?”

Tommy Carmellini nodded slowly. “I

appreciate your asking, Admiral. I’d be

delighted.”

“We are planning a military assault. It is

going to be a holy mess, I think. Vargas will

probably ambush us on the way in or

booby-trap the lab to blow up”…af we’ve fought our

way in there. Maybe both.”

“He’s that kind of guyea”…Carmellini agreed.

“Hector Sedano’s brother is aboard ship.

He was-picked up floating in the ocean north of

Cuba two days ago after the boat he was on

sank. Everyone else aboard drowned or was a

victim of shark attack. This kid is either

Hector’s brother or a liar of Clintonian

dimensions. They call him El Ocho. I want you

to talk to him, feel him out. He impressed me as

an extremely competent, capable young man. Talk

to him, then come back and tell me what you think.”

STEPHEN COONTS

Toad Tarkington was in the Air Intelligence

Center studying satellite images and radar

images from an E-3 Sentry AW ACS

plane flying a race track pattern over the

Florida Straits. The University of Havana

science building was at the center of all the images.

“What’s happening in Havana”…”…Jake asked.

“The streets are full of peopleea”…Toad said.

“Especially around La Cabana Prison. Do you

think they are there to break Hector out?”

“They’re there because he isea”…Jake muttered, and used

a magnifying glass to study the infrared images

of the science building.

Toad pointed at the picture with the tip of a pen.

‘Tankea”…he said. “Vargas is going to be waiting

with his guns loaded.”

“Is he taking cultures out of the building? Do

any of the specialists in Maryland have any opinions

on that?”

“No one has seen any milk trucks. He’d be

a fool to haul that stuff through Havana in a

regular truck.”

“Desperate men do foolish thingsea”…Jake

Grafton said, and laid the magnifying glass

back on the table.

As the sun was setting, Jake received a call from the

White House. “I just watched that tape of

Fidelea”…the president said over the encrypted

circuit.

“It’s impressive. We are going to deliver it

to the woman who gave it to us, see if she can get it

on television tonight.”

“Maybe that will pan outea”…the president said. “The

American Interest Section in Havana says that

the crowd outside the prison is restless. Local

police are nowhere in sight.”

A wave of relief swept over Jake

Grafton. “That’s the best news I’ve heard

today, sir.”

“I’m really worried about those viruses.”

“Sir, we’ll do what we can.”

“Just what are you going to do, Admiral?”

“Improvise as I go along. Do you really want

to know?”"…I guess notea”…the president said heavily.

Alejo Vargas was in the office area across the

hallway from the lab in the University of Havana

science building when General Alba came in with

old General Rafael Zerquera, the titular head

of the Cuban armed forces, the chief of staff. The

old man was at least eighty-five,

probably a bit moreea’and he walked with a cane.

With the two military men were several ministers,

including Ferrara and the mayor of Havana. Behind them

“Sefior Presidents,”

General Zerquera began, and looked around the room

for a chair. He found one and his aide helped him

to it, though Vargas had not invited anyone to sit.

The general looked around slowly, taking everything in.

Through the window one could see the air lock across the

hallway that led to the sealed laboratory.

“I called your office, called the Ministry of

Interior they could not tell me where you were. The army

knew, however.”

Vargas said nothing.

“I saw a missile launched last nighteveryone in

central Cuba saw or heard it.”…The old man

shook his head, remembering. “Weapons to destroy

cities, kill millionsFidel knew that if the

Yanquis ever found out about the missiles, they would

seek to destroy them. He was right. And he knew that

if the missiles were ever used on the United

States …”

Zerquera cocked his head, looked at Vargas.

“So you launched at least one, and it never

reached its target.”

“What’s done is doneea”…Vargas snapped. “How

do you know the missile did not reach its target?”

“Because we are still aliveea”…Zerquera said. “If you

think the Yanquis will not retaliate, you are a

dangerous fool.”

Vargas had to restrain himself. Zerquera had many

STEPHEN COONTS

friends; it would be impossible to stop tongues from wagging

if he were shot here, in front of these junior

officers.

“And then there is this labea”…Zerquera continued blandly,

gesturing at the window glass and the laboratory beyond.

“Here you grow the poison to murder Cuba. If you

use this on the Americans, they will retaliate.

If it escapes, Cubans will die horribly.”

Vargas took a deep breath before he answered.

“We are moving the cultures.”

“Moving them where?”

“To a place where they will be safe.”

“Excuse me,

Senor Presidente,

for my failure to understand. What other place in

Cuba has the sealed ventilation system and

biological alarms and other safeguards

that exist here?”

‘There are none.”

“So there is no place safer than this building.”

“Tonight the Americans will probably attack this

building in order to destroy the cultures. They

burned several facilities last night that contained

cultures, and they will probably burn this one. I

am not a prophet, yet I make that prediction

with a great degree of confidence.”

“The president of the United States can destroy this

building and everything it contains with a telephone

callea”…General Zerquera said softly, “and there is

nothing on earth we can do about it. In my opinion the

viruses should be destroyed, if it can be safely

done. An escape of the polio viruses from whatever

containers they are in will kill vast numbers of our people

unless the containers are housed in a specially prepared

place, like this laboratory.”

Vargas looked exasperated. “You exceed your

authority, General, when you”

Zerquera stopped him with a hand. “No, no, no!

You

exceed

your

authority when you endanger the Cuban people in

order to gratify your ambition.”

“Do not cross me, old manea”…Vargas snarled.

“I am not going to interfere in politics, Alejo.

I never

have. The Cuban people will decide who they want to lead

themneither you nor the exiles nor Fidel nor the

president of the United States can dictate who the

Cuban people will choose. For forty years they wanted

Fidel, a loquacious eccentric with much personal

charm and too little wisdom, in my opinion. Yet a

new day has come.”

Vargas gestured angrily. “These others have brought

you here with lies about me.”

General Rafael Zerquera got to his feet.

He leaned on his cane, examined every face, and ended

with his eyes on Vargas. “A nation matures much like

a man does. Youth makes mistakes: with-age and

experience comes wisdom.”

“You waste our timeea”…Vargas said through his teeth.

“You will not remove the cultures from this building. The

risk to the population is too great.”

Vargas stepped forward to slap the old fool, but one

of the aides stopped him with the barrel of a pistol

pointed right at his face.

“Another step,

Senor Presidente,”

the young man said, “and you are dead.”

Zerquera turned and headed for the door. He went through

it, then took the elevator up to street level.

The civilians followed him. Alba and the young

officers stayed.

“You, Alba? You have betrayed me?”

“I obey my conscienceea”…Alba said, and posted his

men in front of the lab.

“Kill anyone who tries to remove anything from that

roomea”…the general told them.

As the last of the daylight faded, a helicopter from

USS

United States

crossed the southern shore of the island of Cuba flying

northwest. The helicopter stayed low, just above the

treetops. In the cockpit both the pilot and

copilot were wearing night-vision goggles. Behind them

in the bay sat Tommy Carmellini and Ocho

Sedano. A .50-caliber machine gun was mounted

in the open door. The gunner wearing night-vision

goggles sat on the jump seat, looking out.

Overhead EA-6But Prowlers and FirstA-18

Hornets with their HARM missiles ready crossed

the coast at the same time. These

airplanes were there to attack any Cuban radars

that came on the air tonight. So far, all was quiet.

Above the Prowlers and Hornets, F-14

Tomcats patrolled back and forth.

One of the F-14 pilots was Stiff Hardwick.

He and his RIO had ejected last night almost on

top of silo one, so they had ridden home in an

Osprey. The RIO, Boots VonRauenzahn,

sustained a fracture to the left arm; he was

sporting a cast tonight and couldn’t fly. The junior

RIO in the squadron, Sailor Karnow, drew

the short straw and was sitting behind Stiff tonight.

Stiff had had a hell of a bad day. First the

shoot-down by a Cuban fighter pilot, then he

endured a day of razzing from his peers, all of whom

had a great laugh at his tale of woe, then tonight he

had to fly with Sailor, a quiet woman who never

had much to say around the testosterone-charged ready

room.

*

On the way out to the plane this evening, Boots had

put his good arm around the shoulders of his pal, Stiff.

“Sailor will take good care of you. Don’t fret

the program, shipmate.”

Stiff snarled something crude in reply and

stomped off.

He was the sole victim of the entire Cuban Air

Force fighter pilots generally ignored

helicopters, so the Osprey and choppers destroyed

by the MiGo pilot didn’t register on Stiff’s

radar screen. He was never, ever going to be able

to live down the ignominy of last night. His

squadron mates would probably tattoo a

ribald memorial of his disgrace on his ass some

night when he was drunk or chisel it on his

tombstone. His skipper had almost put somebody

else in his place on the flight schedule tnStiff

begged shamelessly: “You gotta let me flyea”…he

sobbed, “give me a chance to redeem myself.”

“You aren’t going to do anything stupid out there, are

you”…”…the skipper asked, his voice tinged with

suspicion.

“Oh, no, sirea”…Stiff assured the man.

So here he was, off to slay the dragon if he

came out of his lair. And that goddamn Cuban

fighter jock was probably still swilling free beer

on the tale of the damned Yanqui who pulled up in

front of him and lit his afterburners.

Actually Carlos Corrado hadn’t thought much about

his aerial victory. He awoke in the

early afternoon with a blinding headache and treated himself

to his usual hangover regimena cup of coffee,

a cigar, and a puke.

He felt a little better this evenin’g but thought he should

forgo food. He would eat after he flew, he

decided.

The powers that be didn’t call the base today, of

course, because the telephone system was hors”…de

combat. Alas, a desk-flying colonel drove

down from Havana.

“Please stay on the ground, Corrado. I would

make that an order, but knowing you, you would disobey it.

So I ask you, please do not fly tonight. Please do

not allow yourself to be shot down. Please do not shame

us.”

Carlos Corrado told the colonel where he could

go and what he could do to himself when he got there.

Tonight he sat on the concrete leaning up against a

nose tire of his steed, which was parked between two gutted

hangars. The troops had worked all day getting the

MiGo-

29 fueled, serviced, and armed. It was ready. Now

all Corrado needed to know was where the Americans were

and what they were up to. Of course there was no one

to tell him.

The walls of the hangars were still standing and magnified the

sounds of the sky. As he chewed on his cigar butt,

Corrado could hear jets running high. The growl

was deep and faint.

The planes were American, certainly, and they had

fangs. If he went heedlessly blasting into the sky,

his life was going to come to an abrupt, violent end.

Where were they going?

Havana? He thought they would go there last night and

they never got near the place.

Of course, the headquarters colonel knew nothing.

At least, he had nothing to say. Except that

Corrado was a fool. Only a fool would

attack the American war machine head-on, he

said.

Corrado got out a match and lit the butt. He

puffed, coughed, chewed on the soggy mess.

Well, hell, we’re all fools, really.

Does any of this matter? And if so, to whom?

Rita Moravia settled the V-22 onto the

flight deck of the

United States

and watched as Jake Grafton came trotting out from

the island. Toad and a dozen marines carrying

aircraft flares followed him. The

marines had their rifles slung over their shoulders and

wore their Kevlar Helmets. Under the red lights

shining down from the ship’s island superstructure, the

shadowy procession looked like something, from a dream, a

vision without substance.

She felt the substance as the men trooped up the

ramp in the back of the plane and the vibrations reached

her through the fuselage. Soon Jake Grafton was

looking over her shoulder.

“Toad says you’re okay. Now tell me the

truth.”

“I’m okay, Admiral.”…She turned and flashed

him a grin. The disbruise on her forehead was yellow

and blue now.

“Whenever you’re readyea”…Jake said, and strapped himself

into the crew chief’s seat.

It was a rare summer night, with a clean, clear

sky, visibility exceeding twenty miles. A

series of rain showers had swept the Florida

Straits earlier in the evening, cleaning out the haze and

crud.

Major Jack O’Brian sat in the cockpit of

his F-117 looking at the cities below as he

flew down the west coast of Florida, out to sea a

little so as to avoid airplanes on the

airway. O’Brian had one radio tuned to his

squadron’s tactical frequency, which he was

merely monitoring in case the mission was scrubbed

at the last minute, and on the other he listened

to Miami Center. He wasn’t talking to the air

traffic controller either. His transponder was off.

He was cruising at 36,500 feet, 500 feet

above the flight level, so he should miss any

airliner that he failed to see. Of course, an

airliner going under him would not see him because his plane

was midnight black and the exterior position lights

were off.

The stealth fighter was also invisible to the controller at

Miami Center, who had his radar configured to received

coded replies from transponders. Even if the

controller chose to look at actual radar

returns, the skin paints, he would not have seen the

F-117, which had been designed to be invisible

to radars at long distances.

This feature also hid the stealth fighter from the

American early-warning radars that were sweeping these

skies looking for outlaw aircraft that might be

aloft in the night, such as drug smugglers. And in just

a few minutes it would

hide it from Cuban radars probing the sky

over the Florida Straits. If there were any.

Completely unseen, a black ghost flitting through the

night, Jack O’Brian’s F-117 passed

Tampa Bay and continued south toward Key West.

It was flying at Mach .72 to conserve fuel. The

fighter had tanked over Tallahassee and would

tank again in just a few minutes over two hours

near Tampa. But first, a little jaunt to Havana.

Navigation was by global positioning system, GPS.

The pilot had entered the coordinates of his destination

into the computer before he even started the engines of his