“I see,” said Hector Sedano, and leaned back against the fence. “Is it yours?”
“I haven’t told anyone else,” Ocho said, meaning the family.
“Are you going to tell Mima?”
“Not on her birthday. I thought maybe you could tell her, after we get to America.”
“Está loco, Ocho. This boat … you could all drown. Hundreds—thousands of people have drowned out there. The sea swallows them. They leave here and are never heard from again.”
Ocho studied his toes.
“If they catch you, the Americans will send you back. They don’t want boat people.”
“Diego Coca says that—”
“Damn Diego Coca! The Cuban Navy will probably catch you before you get out of sight of Mima’s house. Pray that they do, that you don’t die out there in the Gulf Stream. And if you are lucky enough to survive the trip to Florida, the Americans will arrest you, put you in a camp at Guantánamo Bay. Even if you get back to Cuba, the government won’t let you play baseball again. You’ll spend your life in the fields chopping cane. Think about that!”
Ocho sat silently, listening to the insects.
“Did you give Diego Coca money?” Hector asked.
“Yes.”
“Want to tell me how much?”
“No.”
“You’re financing his dream, Ocho.”
“At least he’s got one.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means what I said. At least Diego Coca has a dream. He doesn’t want to sit rotting on this goddamned island while life passes him by. He doesn’t want that for his daughter or her kid.”
“He doesn’t want that for himself.”
Ocho threw up his hands.
Hector pressed on, relentlessly. “Diego Coca should get on that boat and follow his dream, if that is his dream. You and Dora should get married. Announce the wedding tomorrow at Mima’s party—these people are your flesh and blood. Cuba is your country, your heritage. You owe these people and this country all that you are, all that you will ever be.”
“Cuba is your dream, Hector.”
“And what is yours? I ask you a second time.”
Ocho shook his head like a mighty bull. “I do not wish to spend my life plotting against the government, making speeches, waiting to be arrested, dreaming of a utopia that will never be. That is life wasted.”
Hector thought before he answered. “What you say is true. Yet until things change in Cuba it is impossible to dream other dreams.”
Ocho Sedano got to his feet. He was a tall, lanky young man with long, ropy muscles.
“Just wanted you to know,” he said.
“A man must have a dream that is larger than he is or life has little meaning.”
“Didn’t figure you would think it was a good idea.”
“I don’t.”
“Or else you would have gone yourself.”
“Ocho, I ask you a personal favor. Wait two weeks. Don’t go for two weeks. See how the world looks in two weeks before you get on that boat.”
Hector could see the pain etched on Ocho’s face. The younger man looked him straight in the eye.
“The boat won’t wait.”
“I ask this as your brother, who has never asked you for anything. I ask you for Mima, who cherishes you, and for Papa, who watches you from heaven. Have the grace to say yes to my request. Two weeks.”
“The boat won’t wait, Hector. Diego wants this. Dora wants this. I have no choice.”
With that Ocho turned and leaped lightly from bench to bench until he got to the field. He walked across the dark, deserted diamond and disappeared into the home team’s dugout.
Although he was born in Cuba, El Gato’s parents took him to Miami when he was a toddler, before the Cuban revolution. He had absolutely no memory of Cuba. In fact, he thought of himself as an American. English was the language he knew best, the language he thought in. He had learned Spanish at home as a youngster, understood it well, and spoke it with a flavored accent. Still, hearing nothing but Cuban Spanish spoken around him for days gave him a bit of cultural shock.
He and two of his bodyguards had flown to Mexico City, then to Havana. He had always kept his contacts with the Cuban government a deep, dark, jealously guarded secret, but rumors had reached him, rumors that Castro was sick, that important changes in Cuba were in the wind. The rumors had the feel of truth; his instincts told him.
El Gato, the Cat, didn’t get rich by ignoring his instincts. He decided to go to Cuba and take the risk of explaining it away later. If the exiles in Florida ever got the idea that he had double-crossed them, money or no money, they would take their revenge.
Courage was one of El Gato’s long suits. He didn’t accumulate a fortune worth almost a half billion dollars by being timid. So he and his bodyguards boarded the plane. That was almost a week ago. He had been steadily losing money in the casinos every day since while waiting. Now the waiting was over.
Tonight he was to see the man he came to meet, Alejo Vargas. In five minutes.
He checked his watch, then pocketed his chips and walked for the door of the club, the Tropicana, the jewel of Havana. His bodyguards joined him, like shadows.
El Gato left the casino via the back entrance. The three men walked a block to a large black limousine sitting by the curb and climbed into the rear seats.
Two men were sitting on the front-facing seats.
“El Gato, welcome to Havana. I confess, I didn’t think we would ever meet on Cuban soil.”
“Miracles never cease, Señor Vargas. The world turns, the sun rises and sets and we all get older day by day. Wise men change with the times.”
“Quite so. This is Colonel Santana, head of the Department of State Security.”
El Gato nodded politely at Santana, then introduced his bodyguards, men Santana didn’t even bother to look at.
“I was hoping, Señor Vargas, that you and I might have a private conversation, perhaps while these gentlemen watched from a small distance?”
Vargas nodded his 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 aboard,” 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 success,” 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 over,” 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 Cuba,” 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 American,” 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 government,” El Gato said. “I believe you authorized those payments.”
“You have a sense of the sardonic, I see,” 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, Señor Vargas. Let’s not pretend with each other. I arranged for you to acquire the equipment and chemicals necessary to create a biological warfare program. What you have done with those chemicals and equipment I 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 Señora.”
“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 everyone,” Vargas said.
“Precisely.”
“Just so that I understand—are you suggesting that you want to be that man, el jefecito?”
“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?”
“Señor 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 for,” El Gato said, genuine warmth obvious in his voice. “I thank you for that promise.”
CHAPTER THREE
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, sir,” Tarkington said cheerfully. “A little flying helps clean out the pipes, keeps everything in perspective.”
“That it does,” Jake agreed, and stretched.
He had the best job in the navy, he thought. As a battle group commander he could still fly—indeed, 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 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 inverted position, though with only seventy degrees of heading change. The nose continued down—keep the roll in!—and the 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 it—a 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 finest aerobatic pilot? Have you no respect?”
“These whifferdills are not quite up to your usual world-class 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 tech you to respect your elders.”
“You got that right,” 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.
“Admiral, I know you thin
k I was loafing back here,” 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 crosshairs.
“Tell me when you see him,” 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 countermeasures (ECM) panel lit up as the F-14’s sensors picked up the emissions of the other plane’s radar.
“A MiG-29,” Jake said.
“What’s he doing out here?” Toad wondered.
“Same thing as we are. Out flying around seeing what is what.”
“I thought the Cubans had retired their MiG-29s. Couldn’t keep paying the bills on ’em.”
“Well, at least one is still operational.”
Even as they watched, the MiG 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 MiG behind him. The Soviets specifically designed the MiG-29 to be able to defeat the F-14, F-15, F-16 and F/A-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 MiG 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 MiG-29.”
“Roger that. We’ve been tracking him for twenty-five minutes now.”
Cuba Page 4
