Cuba (6 page)

introduced his bodyguards, men Santana didn’t

even bother to look at.

“I was hoping, Senor Vargas, that you and I might

have a private conversation, perhaps while these gentlemen

watched from a small distance?”

Vargas nodded Ms assent, pushed a button, and

spoke into an intercom to the driver. After about

fifteen minutes of travel, during which nothing was

said, the limo pulled up to a curb and all the men

got out. The car was sitting on a breakwater near

Morro Castle, with the dark battlements looming

above them in the glare of Havana reflecting off the

clouds.

Vargas and El Gato began strolling.

“The cargo is aboardea”…El Gato said, “and the ship

has sailed. I presume you kept me waiting

to see if that event would occur.”

“When you proposed this operation, I had my

doubts. I still do.”

“I cannot guarantee successea”…El Gato said.

“I do everything within my power to make success

possible, but sometimes the world does not turn my way.

I understand that, and I keep trying anyway.”

‘The waiting will soon be overea”…Vargas said.

“Indeed. In many ways. I hear rumors that

Fidel will not be with us much longer.”

Vargas didn’t reply to that remark.

“Change is rapidly coming to Cubaea”…El Gato

began, “and the thought occurred to me that a man with friends in

Cuba under the new order would be in an enviable

position.”

“You have such friends?”

“I am here to test the water, so to speak, to learn if

I, do.”

“After your years of opposition to Castro, any friends

you have will not be very vocal about it.”

“Noisy friends I have aplenty in Florida. No,

the kind of friends I need are the kind who keep their

friendship to themselves and help when help is needed, who

give approvals when asked, who nod yes at the

appropriate time.”

“How much money have you given the exiles”

political movements over the years?”

“You wish to know the figure?”

“Yes. I wish to learn if you will be honest with me.

Obviously I have sources and some idea of the amount.

Come now, impress me with your frankness and your

honesty.”

“Over five million Americanea”…El Gato

said.

This was twice the figure Vargas expected, and he

looked at the American sharply. If El Gato

was lying, exaggerating the number to impress Vargas,

it didn’t show in his face.

“Some of that money, a small amount it is true,

came directly from the Cuban governmentea”…El

Gato said. “I believe you authorized those

payments.”

“You have a sense of the sardonic, I seeea”…Vargas

said without humor. One got the impression he had not

smiled in his lifetime, nor would he.

El Gato nodded.

“You had a commodity to sell, we wished to buy. We

paid a fair price.”

“Come, come, Senor Vargas. Let’s not pretend

with each other. I arranged for you to acquire the

equipmenteaand chemicals necessary to create a

biological warfare program. What you have done with

those chemicals and equipment

1 don’t know, nor do I want to know. But you know

as well as I that if the American government found

out about the sale I would be ruined. And you know that I

made no profit in the transaction.”

Vargas nodded, a dip of the head.

“Nor have I asked for money for arranging to steal

Nuestra Senora.”

“That is true, but if the operation succeeds, we would

have paid a fair amount.”

“I do not want your money.”

“You want something. What?”

El Gato walked a few paces with his hands in his

pockets before he spoke. “After Castro I

envision a Cuba much more friendly to American

interests, more open to a free flow of capital in and

out. A great many people in the

United States have a great deal of money

accumulated that they want to invest in Cuba, which they

will do as soon as the United States government

allows them to do so, and as soon as the Cuban

government guarantees these investors that their investment

will not be confiscated or stolen with hidden taxes or

demands for graft. A man who could

guarantee that his friends would be fairly treated in

Cuba could make a lot of money. He would be a

patron, if you will. And if he carefully screened

his friends, Cuba would get a vetted flow of capable

investors who would perform as promised.”

“Something for everyoneea”…Vargas said.

“Precisely.”

“Just so that I understandare you suggesting that you want to be

that man,

el jefecitol”

“I could do it, I believe.”

“The exiles expect to come to Cuba at Castro’s

death and take over the country. They want

billions in repatriations! I tell you now, you have

helped fuel their expectations with your five

million dollars.”

What he failed to mention was the fact that the Cuban

government had played to the fears of the peons who

stayed, telling them they would be thrown from their

homes”…if the exiles ever returned.

El Gato smiled. “Like the exiles, you fail

to clearly see the situation. They are Americans.

They make more money in America than they ever could in

Cuba. They will never return in significant

numbers. In fact, if the borders are

thrown open, the net human flow will be toward the

United States, not back to Cuba. If the

American government would allow it, a million

Cubans a year would leave this island. You would be

wise to let people go where they wish to go.”

“You are saying the exile problem will just disappear?”

“Except for a few bitter old men, yes, I

believe it will. The young ones have gotten on with their

lives. They have no old scores to settle.”

“So you betray these old ones for your own profit?”

“Senor Vargas, if they wish to nurse old

grudges and dream of a time which is long past and will

never come again, who am I to tell them no? Most of

these people are quite harmless. Those who aren’t can be dealt with

when they cause problems. A public apology

to dispossessed old people, a plea for healing, a few

pesos, and the exiles could be appeased.”

“Assassination plots against Castro and the like?”

“Plots that never get off the ground are harmless.

Let them have their meetings and their thunderous

denunciations. These people will pass from the scene soon

enough.”

Vargas made a gesture of irritation. He had his

own opinions and didn’t really wish to hear

other people’s. “Colonel Santana will take you and

your men to your hotel.”

“Thank you.”

“I can promise you very little, El Gato. I understand

that you cannot guarantee the future, but the North

Koreans must fulfill their part of our bargain. If

they do, there is a chance, just a chance, that I may

rule after Castro.”

El Gato waited.

Vargas continued: “I will not forget what you did for

me, for Cuba. If the day ever comes when I am in

a position to help you, feel free to ask. What

I can do then will have to be decided upon that day.”

“That is more than I hoped forea”…El Gato said,

genuine warmth obvious in his voice. “I thank you

for that promise.”

The F-14 Tomcat hung suspended in an

infinite blue sky, over an infinite blue sea.

Or so it seemed to Jake Grafton, who sat in

the front cockpit taking it all in. Behind him

Toad Tarkington was working the radar, searching the sky

ahead. The air was dead calm today, so without a

visual reference there was no sensation of motion. The

puffy clouds on the surface of the sea seemed to be

marching uniformly toward the rear of the

aircraft, almost as if the sky were spinning under the

airplane.

The fighter was cruising at 31,000 feet, heading

northwestward parallel with the southern coast of

Cuba, about a hundred and fifty miles offshore.

“I sure am glad you got us off the ship,

sirea”…Tarkington said cheerfully. “A little flying

helps clean out the pipes, keeps everything in

perspective.”

“That it doesea”…Jake agreed, and stretched.

He had the best job in the navy, he thought. As a

battle group commander he could still flyindeed, an

occasional flight was part of the job description.

Yet his flying days would soon be over: in just two

months he was scheduled to turn over the command to another

admiral and be on his way somewhere.

He searched the empty sky automatically as he

thought again about where the next set of orders might send

him. If the people in the flag detailing office in the

Pentagon had a clue, they certainly weren’t

talking.

Ah, it would all work out. The powers that be would send

him another set of orders or retire him, and it

really

39

didn’t matter much which way it went. Everyone has

to move on sooner or later, so why not now?

Maybe he should just submit his retirement papers,

get on with the rest of his life.

With his right hand he hit the emergency disconnect for the

autopilot, which worked as it should.

Without touching the throttles, Jake Grafton

smoothly lifted the nose and began feeding in left

stick. Nose climbing, wing dropping … rolling

smoothly through the in– verted position, though with

only seventy degrees of heading change. The

nose continued downkeep the roll inffandthe G

increased as the fighter came out of the dive and back

to the original heading, only 1,400 below the entry

altitude. Ta-ta! There you have ita sloppy

barrel roll!

Jake kept the stick back and started a barrel

roll to the right.

“Are you okay up there, sir”…”…Toad Tarkington

asked anxiously.

“You ask that of me? The world’s fine’st acrobatic

pilot? Have you no respect?”

“These whifferdills are not quite up to your usual

worldclass standards, so one wonders. Could it be

illness, decrepitude, senility?”

They were passing the inverted positon when Jake said,

“Just for that, Tarkington, you can put us on the flight

schedule every day so we can practice. An hour and a

half of high-G maneuvers seven times a week

will teach you to respect your elders.”

“You got that rightea”…Toad replied, and moaned as if

he were in pain as Jake lifted the Tomcat into a

loop.

“War Ace One Oh Four, this is Sea Hawk.

You have traffic to the northwest, one hundred miles,

heading south at about 30,000.”

“Roger, Sea Hawk.”,

Coming down the back side of the loop, Jake turned

to the northwest.

STEPHEN COONTS

“Admiral, I know you think I was loafing back

hereea”…Toad said obsequiously, “but I had that guy

on the scope. Honest! I was just gonna say something

when that E-2 guy beat me to the switch.”

“Sure, Toad. These things happen. If you’re

going to nap, next time bring a pillow.”

“This guy is coming south, like he’s out of some base in

central Cuba, about our altitude. Heck of a

coincidence, huh?”

The F-14 had an optical camera mounted in the

nose that was slaved to the radar cross-hairs.

“Tell me when you see himea”…Jake murmured.

“Be a couple miles yet. Let’s come right ten

degrees just for grins and see what happens.”

Jake again had the fighter on autopilot. He

pushed the stick right, then leveled on the new

course.

At fifty miles Toad had the other airplane

on the screen of his monitor. A silver

airplane, fighter size, with the sun glinting off its

skin. The electronic conntermeasures (Ecm)

panel lit up as the F-14’s sensors picked

up the emissions of the other plane’s radar.

“A MiGo-29ea”…Jake said.

“What’s he doing out here”…”…Toad wondered.

“Same thing as we are. Out flying around seeing what

is what.”

“I thought th@lCubans had retired their

MiGo-29’s. Couldn’t keep paying the bills on

“em.”. “Well, at least one is still operational.”

.

Even as they watched, the MiGo altered course to the

left so that he would have a chance to turn in behind the

F-14 when their flight paths converged.

Jake Grafton was suddenly sure he didn’t

want the MiGo behind him. The Soviets

specifically designed the MiGo-29 to be able

to defeat the F-14, F-15, F-16 and

FirstA-18 in close combat; it was,

probably, the second-best fighter in the world (the

best being the Sukhoi Su-27 Flanker). Jake

altered course so the two planes would converge

head-on.

What would the MiGo pilot do?

If the Cuban pilot opened fire over the ocean,

over a hundred miles from land, who would ever know?

“Sea Hawk, One Oh Four, are you getting this

on tape?”

“Yes, sir. We’re recording.”

“This bogey is a MiGo-29.”

“Roger that. We’ve been tracking him for

twenty-five minutes now.”