“Of course she flies, and lower your voice or
Miroslava
will hear you,” said the man. His English had the same flat drawl as his Spanish.
“Who’s Miroslava?” Carrie asked.
“She is,” said the man, stroking the aircraft’s rounded snout, “
Miroslava
the Golden Oriole. She’s a PZL-104 Wilga and proud of it. A hundred and twenty miles per hour, range of four hundred and twenty miles; take you anywhere in Cuba you want to go.”
“You’re not Cuban.”
“Name’s Pete Laframboise,” said the man. He held out a hand and they both shook it. The grip was strong and firm and the hand felt as though it had done its fair share of hard labor. “I’m a political exile,” he added pleasantly.
“Laframboise,
laframbuesa
, very cute,” said Carrie.
“I thought so,” he replied.
“What kind of political exile?” Carrie asked.
“You’re way too young,” said Laframboise. “FLQ, Federation de Liberation du Quebec.”
“The Cross-LaPorte kidnappings in Montreal, October 1970,” said Carrie promptly. “LaPorte was murdered and the prime minister invoked the War Measures Act, same thing as martial law in the States. First real case of terrorism in North America. The FLQ went around planting bombs in mailboxes.”
“Not bad,” Laframboise said, turning to Black. “Who in hell does
she
work for?”
“If I told you I’d have to kill you.” Black smiled. He paused. “You don’t sound very French-Canadian.”
“I’m not. I’m all Anglo. But I was young. I was
going to McGill University. I fell in with the ‘wrong bunch,’ as the saying goes. Her name was Paulette and she was very passionate about…politics. We were part of the team that kidnapped James Cross, the British trade commissioner. In return for letting him go, we were all exiled to Cuba. The rest went back years ago. I was the only one who stayed. I like it down here. No winters, no snow to shovel. No hockey, either, but what the hey, you can’t have everything, even in the Socialist Paradise.”
“And you wound up flying airplanes?”
Laframboise shrugged and smiled. “I already had my license by the time I got to Montreal. Back then they needed crop dusters, so there was a ready-made job.”
“You’re very forthcoming about yourself,” said Black.
“Some people couldn’t give a crap. Just get them to the fishing and pick them up again without any chatter. You two are different. I could tell that right off. You’re no fishermen. You’re not even tourists, so I thought I’d be up front. Now it’s your turn; you be up front with me and maybe I’ll let you hire
Miroslava
.”
“Fair enough,” said Black. “We’re looking for someone in the Sierra del Escambray. If we don’t find him, a lot of people are going to die.”
“You’re a Brit. Who do
you
work for?”
“MI6.”
Laframboise glanced at Carrie. “Which means she works for…”
“That’s right.” Black nodded.
“You’ve got big brass ones to play spy games in this country—I’ll give you that,” said Laframboise. “In Cuba they drop you in jail for five years for not handing over your ID fast enough.”
“This is no game, Mr. Laframboise. This is the real thing. I wasn’t kidding that people are going to die unless we find this man, and very soon.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is John Holliday. He’s traveling with a Cuban mercenary named Eddie Cabrera. They’re looking for Cabrera’s brother, Domingo.”
“Who’s this Domingo character?”
“An ex-agent of MININT,” answered Carrie. “The Ministerio del Interior.”
Laframboise lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Believe me, dear, I know what MININT stands for. I’ve had my own run-ins with them every once in a while.” He shook his head. “You really like to pick exciting friends, don’t you?”
“He’s hardly a friend,” said Black. “But we really do need to find him.”
“And this stuff about a lot of people dying is true?”
“I’m afraid so.” Black nodded.
Laframboise shrugged. “Okay, me and
Miroslava
are in.”
“It may well be dangerous,” warned Black.
“What the hell?” said the tall, gangly man. “What’s life without a little danger?” He grinned. “Besides, if things get really bad, we’ll just fly to the Caymans so I can spend all that money I’ve been squirreling away for a snowy day.”
“All right.” Black nodded again. “We need to go back to our hotel and pack a few things. Can you be ready in an hour?”
“No problemo.”
The pilot nodded.
After twenty-two years of military service, fighting in three wars for his country and receiving two Purple Hearts, the Distinguished Service Medal, a Bronze Star and divorce papers and losing any sort of custody for his two kids, Major Frank Turturro was making the princely sum of six thousand six hundred and thirty-three dollars a month. Of that, twenty-four hundred dollars went to alimony, twelve hundred to child support and seven hundred on car payments. He’d maxed out all his credit cards, his overdraft protection had been revoked and he was still on the hook for his ex-wife’s student loans for the degree she’d gone after and failed to obtain while in search of her “inner woman.” When all was said and done, he barely had enough left over for beer and pretzels.
He’d been in the U.S. Army for twenty-two years
and had post-traumatic stress disorder stretched wire thin from Baghdad to Kabul and back again. More than once while lying on his back on some stony piece of ground in the middle of goat-butt nowhere staring up at constellations that were nothing like the ones he’d grown up with, he’d seriously considered putting his Browning .45 between his teeth and giving it the old heave-ho.
Instead he went home after his last tour, took his pension in a lump sum and paid all his debts, then took a contract with Blackhawk Security and went straight back to Helmand Province, this time at six thousand a week. That was four years ago, and now he was a light colonel commanding his own small battalion of top-notch men, all of them combat veterans like himself and making a hell of a lot more than six grand. Mind you, commanding an elite unit about to start a revolution in Cuba was no ordinary ride in a Humvee down the dangerous streets of Sadr City in Baghdad.
Lieutenant Colonel Frank J. Turturro stared through the olive drab Steiner binoculars. In the clearing below he could see a low, concrete block building with a shed roof made of corrugated iron. A narrow dirt road wound up the steep slope of the mountain, passing directly in front of the building. A Soviet GAZ-67 jeep knockoff from the good old days sat in a dirt parking lot beside the building, and a
couple of rusty bicycles were leaned on the wall beneath the overhanging porch. A Cuban flag hung limply on a pole to the right of the old school, and a roughly made pole barrier blocked the road.
According to his intel, the building had once been a school, but the birthrate had fallen to nothing in the area years before and now the structure was a barracks and checkpoint for the Policía Nacional Revolucionaria, or the PNR, Cuban National Police Force. His intel had also told him that the barracks held an eight-man squad, two men on patrol, two men at the checkpoint barrier and a second shift asleep or simply off duty within the barracks.
Turturro shifted the binoculars slightly. Two blue-uniformed men in baseball caps were seated in white plastic garden chairs on the open verandah of the building. Both men had their chairs tilted back, both were smoking cigarettes and the one closest to the parking lot had a beer bottle nestled between his legs.
“Time,” said Turturro, his voice barely a whisper.
“Fifteen fifty-eight hours,” said Anthony Veccione, the man on his left with the LAW rocket tube cradled in his arms. According to Veccione, his friends called him “The Therapist” because he got rid of people’s anxieties—permanently.
The M72 already had the tube extended, the sights up and the spring-loaded safety pulled out into the “Armed” position. All Tony had to do now was to sit
up on his knees, put the tube on his shoulder and squeeze his fingers on the big button-style trigger mechanism on the topside of the tube. The M72 was slow and old, dating back to the Vietnam War, but it could blow through eight inches of tank armor and it would turn the inside of the old school building into a meat grinder. Veccione had a second tube strapped to his back in a special pack.
“Two minutes until the shift change,” said Turturro. He turned to his right. Lying beside him was Nick Cavan, the best of the four senior snipers in Turturro’s company. “You ready, Nick?”
“Yes, sir,” said Cavan. He was using an XM2010 Enhanced Sniper Rifle, which had only been in operational use for a year. This particular version was fitted with a suppressor, a muzzle brake and a Leupold Mark 4 variable-strength telescopic sight that could do virtually anything except iron your laundry. The weapon used Sierra Match King Hollow Point Boat Tail ammunition that could take out a butterfly’s eye at fifteen hundred yards.
“Time?” Turturro asked again.
“Fifteen fifty-nine,” Veccione said.
“Any second now,” said Turturro. He felt the familiar ache in his jaw that came just before an operation began, like grinding your teeth while you were awake. “Remember, Nick first, then Tony.” Turturro pressed his headset button. “Everyone else set?”
There was a series of electronic clicks in his ear. In the distance he could hear the grind and rattle as the two-man patrol vehicle struggled up the mountain road. The old Gaz 67 appeared around the corner and the lieutenant colonel held his breath. Showtime, he thought.
And then it all went to hell.
As the Soviet-style jeeps pulled into the parking lot, Turturro heard another engine sound. This one was a struggling whine and then a grinding noise as someone tried to downshift. A few seconds later a white, mud-spattered Gaz minibus appeared around the corner. The lieutenant colonel adjusted the focus on the binoculars, trying to make out who was in the van.
“Shit,” said Turturro.
“What?” Nick Cavan asked, his cheek pressed to the stock of the vicious-looking sniper rifle.
“A bus full of cops. They must be servicing all the checkpoints in the area.”
“What do we do?” Cavan asked. “Abort?”
Turturro thought for a split second. “No,” he said. “Change of plan.” He turned to Veccione. “How long to get the second LAW out and ready to fire?”
“Never timed it,” said Veccione. “Under ten seconds. Seven, eight maybe.”
“Okay, switch targets. As soon as the minibus
stops, take it out. We can’t let any of those cops set up or get into the bush. This whole thing depends on wiping them all out. Once you hit the bus, get the second shot ready and hit the building. Tony picks off any strays.” He pressed the button on his earpiece. “Follow my lead. We’ve got company.”
The minibus pulled to a stop in front of the building and the two guards seated on the shaded porch tipped their chairs forward and stood up. The driver’s-side door of the minibus opened and as the driver put one leg out Turturro distinctly heard the sharp clicking sound as Veccione squeezed the trigger mechanism on top of the M72. A sound like a door slamming right beside Turturro’s ear registered and even before the first round hit, Veccione was hauling the second round out of his pack. Simultaneously he fired the virtually soundless sniper rifle, pulled back the bolt and fired a second time.
The first LAW round went through the windshield of the minibus as the two guards on the porch went down, each with a single round through the chest. The LAW round detonated in the minibus, blowing out all the windows and peeling off the roof like a tin of beans exploding in a campfire. As the first men stumbled out of the barracks doorway, Cavan began dropping them with the big boat-tail bullets, managing two center-mass shots and one head shot before the second LAW rocket went smoking through the
dark doorway of the barracks, making Cavan and his single shots redundant.
The rocket exploded, lifting the corrugated metal roof a foot off the rafters and enveloping the entire scene in a roiling cloud of dust and smoke. One man, probably the driver of the minibus, staggered out of the choking cloud, his right arm in tatters to the elbow and most of his scalp and face an open, bloody wound. Turturro gripped the binoculars and forced himself to keep on watching. Beside the lieutenant colonel the bolt on Cavan’s rifle gave its lethal, heel-clicking
snick
. The minibus driver’s head disappeared in a blossoming pinkish cloud and the rest of him sank to the ground.
Turturro waited. The smoke began to dissipate in the wind as the last echoes from the LAWS rockets faded away against the hills. The gas tank on the minibus exploded briefly, bucking the back end of the vehicle into the air. All four tires were burning furiously and Turturro began to smell the raw stink of the melting rubber.
He pressed his finger to his earbud. “Go,” he said. From behind him a dozen men in camo gear with an M-4 carbine in one hand and a cane-cutting machete in the other rose out of the jungle and headed down the hillside to the clearing. Each man had a brown jute sack tucked into his belt.
Turturro stood and followed them, taking a can of
red Krylon spray paint from the satchel hanging from his belt. Veccione and Cavan stayed behind, their jobs done. Turturro touched the switch on his earbud and spoke into his throat microphone again. “Get me hands and heads, gentlemen, as many as you can. Remember, we are the wrath and hammer of God come down on Fidel and his devil boys today. Let’s scare the shit out of these bastards!”
Turturro reached the bottom of the hill and crossed the parking lot to the side wall of the barracks. The smell of hot metal and burning rubber fumed like a choking pall. He shook the can of Krylon to mix the paint, then quickly drew a circle with a large Z. Beneath the design he spray-painted the slogan:
VIVA ORLANDO ZAPATA!
Orlando Zapata Tamayo being a martyr who died in a Cuban jail after an eighty-five-day hunger strike and whose ashes were now buried beside the veterans of the Bay of Pigs invasion of 1961. Turturro smiled as he put the dot beneath the exclamation mark. Nothing like having a dead man to lead your insurrection. That was the problem with people like Adolf, Fidel or Stalin—eventually all their warts began to show; a martyr stayed dead and pure forever. He looked at his watch. Seven minutes. He switched on his throat mike again.