Cuba

by Stephen Coonts

  “Anything stirring out here?” Chance asked.

  “No, sir. Pretty quiet. An old man and a girl walked along the road toward the monastery about three P.M., then turned and went back the way they had come.”

  “Did they see your men?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well …” In truth, Chance was nervous. He felt trapped, completely at the mercy of forces beyond his control. He took a deep breath, tried to relax as Carmellini stirred the ashes of the fire to ensure that all the paper he had thrown in was totally consumed.

  “Would you like some MREs, sir?” the navy officer asked. “My men and I are getting hungry.”

  Surprised at himself for not noticing his hunger sooner, Chance said, “Why not?” He hadn’t had a bite since last night.

  They were munching at the rations when a helicopter came roaring down the coast from the west. The craft was doing about eighty knots, Chance guessed, when it went over the old monastery. It continued west for a half mile or so, then laid into a turn.

  “Shit,” said Tommy Carmellini.

  “Lieutenant, I think he’s onto us,” Chance told the SEAL officer.

  “If he is, his friends can’t be far away,” the SEAL said. Standing in the center of the room so he was hidden in shadow, he used the binoculars to look at the chopper.

  “Two men, one looking at us with binoculars.”

  “Maybe it’s time we set sail,” Chance said as he folded the laptop and zipped it into its soft carrying bag. Then he put the whole thing in a waterproof plastic bag, which he carefully sealed.

  “Stay down, stay clear of the windows,” the lieutenant said, and darted out the door away from the chopper.

  Chance and Carmellini sat on the floor with their backs to the window. The chopper noise came closer and closer, then seemed to stop. It sounded as if the craft were hovering about a hundred feet to the east of the crumbling building. The rotor wash was stirring the remnants of the roof thatch that Chance could see.

  Then he heard the sharp crack of a rifle. Two more reports in quick succession. The tone of the chopper’s engine changed, then he heard the sound of the crash.

  He risked a peek out the window. The wreckage of the helicopter lay on the rocks by the water’s edge. Amazingly, one of the rotor blades was still attached to the head and turning slowly. A wisp of smoke rose from the twisted metal and Plexiglas. Chance could see the bodies of the two men slumped motionless in what remained of the cockpit. As he watched the wreckage broke into flames.

  “Sorry about that,” the lieutenant said as he burst into the room, “but the copilot was holding a radio mike in his hand. I think it’s time we bid Cuba a fond farewell.”

  “Let’s go,” Chance agreed.

  The boats were fast, at least thirty knots. In the swell of the open sea beyond the peninsula they bucked viciously. Salt spray came back over the men huddled behind the tiny windscreen every time the boat buried its bow.

  Chance settled back, wedged himself into place with the computer on his lap.

  They were well out to sea, heading due south, when a Cuban gunboat rounded the eastern promontory and gave chase. A puff of smoke came from the forward deck gun and was swept away by the wind.

  The splash was several hundred yards short.

  The lieutenant at the helm altered course to put the gunboat dead astern. The Cuban captain fired twice more; both rounds fell short. Then he apparently decided to save his ammunition.

  The boats ran on to the southwest.

  Tommy Carmellini caught Chance’s eye and gave him a huge grin.

  Yeah, baby!

  The distance between the speedboats and the gunboat slowly widened over the next hour. After a while the gunboat was only visible as a black spot on the horizon when the boat topped a swell. As the rim of the sun touched the sea, the Americans realized the crew of the gunboat had given up and turned back toward the north.

  Then they heard the jets. Two swept-wing fighters dropping down astern, spreading out as they came racing in, one after each boat.

  “MiG-19s,” the lieutenant shouted. “Hang on tight.”

  The shells hit the sea behind the boat and marched toward it as quick as thought. Lieutenant Fitzgerald spun the helm, the boat tilted crazily, and the impact splashes from the strafing run missed to starboard.

  The jet that strafed Chance’s boat pulled out right over the boat, no more than fifty feet up. The thunder of the engines was deafening.

  The jet made a climbing turn to the left, a long, lazy loop that took it back for another strafing run. His wingman stayed in trail behind him.

  “Turn west, into the sun,” Chance shouted to Fitzgerald, who complied. The other boat did the same. The boats came out of their turns with the sun’s orb dead ahead, a ball of fire touching the ocean.

  The jets behind overshot the run-in line, so they made a turn away from the boats, letting the distance lengthen, as they worked back to the dead astern position.

  Fitzgerald handed Chance his M-16. “As he pulls out overhead, give him the whole magazine full automatic.”

  Chance nodded and lay down in the boat.

  As the jets thundered down, Fitzgerald turned the boat ninety degrees left, then straightened. The MiG’s left wing dropped as he swung the nose out to lead the crossing boat. He steepened his dive. As the muzzle flashes appeared on his wing root, Fitzgerald spun the helm like a man possessed to bring the boat back hard east, into the attacker.

  The shell splashes missed left this time: Chance let go with the M-16 pointing straight up, in the hope the MiG would fly through the barrage.

  Whether any of his bullets hit the jet as it slashed overhead, he couldn’t tell. The plane pulled out with its left wing down about thirty degrees, but its nose never came above the horizon. Perhaps the sun dead ahead on the horizon disoriented the pilot. The left roll continued as the plane descended toward the sea, then it hit with a surprisingly small splash. Just like that, it was gone.

  The other jet was climbing nicely. The pilot had found his target: the other speedboat was upside down in the sea.

  Fitzgerald turned toward the upset boat, kept his speed up.

  The wingman took his time—he must realize this would be the last strafing run because the light was failing, and perhaps he was running low on fuel.

  He came off the juice, kept the power back, so on this pass he was doing no more than 250 knots, a pleasant maneuvering speed.

  Fitzgerald turned his boat so that he was heading straight for the jet. He had the throttle wide open. The jet steepened his dive.

  The pilot held his fire and fed in forward stick.

  Fitzgerald spun the helm as far as it would go and the boat laid over on its beam in a turn.

  The jet didn’t shoot, but began pulling out. William Henry Chance let go with a whole magazine.

  Closer and closer the plane dropped toward the sea, the nose still coming up, contrails swirling off the wingtips from the G-loads. The belly of the MiG almost kissed the water, came within a hair’s breadth, and then the jet was climbing into the sky trailing a wisp of smoke.

  “Maybe you hit him,” Fitzgerald shouted.

  “He sure came close enough.”

  Now the jet was turning toward the north, still climbing and trailing smoke. Soon it was out of sight amid the altocumulus clouds.

  The overturned boat had been hit by cannon fire, which punched at least six holes in the bottom. One man in the water had a broken arm, the other two were dead. A cannon shell had hit one of the men in the torso.

  Chance and Carmellini managed to get the injured man aboard.

  “The bodies too,” Fitzgerald demanded. “They’re my men.”

  “What about the Cuban pilot?” Carmellini asked Fitzgerald.

  “He’s probably dead,” the SEAL lieutenant said. “If he isn’t, I hope he’s a good swimmer.”

  The naval officer used a handheld GPS to set his course to the submarine rendezvous.

 
Jake Grafton walked down the hill from the Officers’ Club and along the pier between the warehouses. He walked past foxholes and strongpoints made from piles of torn-up concrete, each of which contained a handful of marines, wide-eyed young men in camouflage clothing and helmets, armed to the teeth. Someone in every strongpoint watched every step he took. He walked by the muzzles of a dozen machine guns and a few light artillery pieces.

  The whole area was well lit by floodlights mounted on the eaves of every warehouse. Some marines were gathered around a mobile kitchen, eating hot MREs, and some were gathered around a headquarters tent near the hurricane-proof warehouse. They all carried gas masks on their belts.

  Jake stopped at the tent and said hello to the landing force commander, Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt, who was still awake and keeping an eye on things at this hour. The colonel poured Jake a cup of coffee.

  “Your chief of staff, Captain Pascal, was here about an hour ago, Admiral,” the colonel said. “He tells me that cleaning out that warehouse will take three more days. The ordnance crew from Nevada is working around the clock.”

  Jake nodded. Gil Pascal was briefing him four times a day.

  “The men have been told that this whole operation is classified, not to be discussed with unauthorized personnel,” Eckhardt replied.

  “Fine. Is there anything I can do for you, anything you need?”

  They discussed logistics for a few minutes, then the colonel said, “I assume you’re keeping up with the news out of Havana, Admiral.”

  “I was briefed before I came ashore,” Jake replied.

  “I got a message from Central Command advising me that there are large riots going on in three or four major Cuban cities.”

  “I have heard that too.”

  “Does that have any bearing on our posture here, sir?” the marine officer asked.

  “If I knew what the hell was going on, Colonel, you’re the first man I’d tell. Washington isn’t telling me diddly-squat. I don’t think they know diddly-squat to tell. Yes, the intel summary says people are rioting in the streets in several Cuban towns, everyone in Washington is waiting for Castro to tell his people to shut up, for the troops to wade in. So far it hasn’t happened.”

  “Maybe Castro is dead,” Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt speculated.

  “God only knows. Just keep your people alert and ready. Three more days. Just three more.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Try as they might, Ocho Sedano and the old fisherman could not get the water out of Angel del Mar. With both of them pushing and pulling on the pump handle they could just keep up with the water coming into the boat. If either of them stopped, and the other lacked the strength to work the pump quickly enough, the water level rose.

  They struggled all night against the rising water. At dawn they knew they were beaten. No one else on the boat was willing to come below and pump. Some said they were afraid of being trapped below deck if the boat should go under, and others plainly lacked the strength. The passengers of the Angel del Mar lay about the deck horribly sunburned, semiconscious, severely dehydrated and starving.

  On the evening of the previous day one woman drank sea water. The old fisherman didn’t see her do it, but he knew she had when she began retching and couldn’t stop. She retched herself into unconsciousness and died sometime during the night. When he went up on deck in the middle of the night, she was dead, lying in a pool of her own vomit.

  The other children were also dead. Three little corpses, now still forever.

  No one protested when he threw their bodies overboard.

  Then he went below to help Ocho.

  The losing battle was fought in total darkness against an inanimate pump handle and their own failing strength in a tossing, heaving boat as water swirled around their legs. Ocho prayed aloud, sobbed, babbled of his mother, of his deceased father, of the days he remembered from his youth.

  The old fisherman remained silent, not really listening to Ocho—who never stopped pumping—but thinking of his own life, of the women he had loved, of the hard things life had taught him. He would die soon, he knew, and somehow that was all right, a fitting thing, the proper end to the great voyage he had had through life. Life pounds you, he thought, knocks out the pride and piss of youth. Live long enough and you begin to see the big picture, see yourself as God must see you, as a flawed mortal speck of protoplasm whose fate is of little concern to anyone but you. You work, eat, sleep, defecate, reproduce, and die, precisely like all the others, no different really, and the planet turns and the star burns on, both quite indifferent to your fate.

  He understood the grand scheme now, and thought the knowledge worth very little. Certainly not worth the effort of telling what he knew to the boy, who would also die soon and lacked the fisherman’s years and experience. No, the boy would not appreciate the wisdom that age had acquired.

  When the gray light from the coming day managed to find its way down the hatch and showed him the level of the water sloshing about, the old fisherman said “Enough. Out. Up the ladder before she goes under.” He pulled Ocho away from the handle, shoved him up the ladder.

  “Up, up, damn you. I want out of here too.” The words made Ocho scramble out of the way.

  The sea was empty in every direction. The old fisherman looked carefully, then shook his head sadly. Where were the ships and boats that were usually here? Why had no one seen the drifting wreck of the Angel del Mar?

  “Into the ocean with you. The boat is sinking. You must get into the water, swim away, so the mast and lines will not trap you and pull you under when she sinks.”

  They stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  “Into the water, or not,” he said softly, “as you choose. May God be with you.”

  And he walked aft and stepped off the stern of the ship into the sea. The salt water felt refreshing, welcomed him.

  Ocho Sedano stood on the rail a moment, then stumbled and fell in. He paddled toward the old man.

  “Ocho!” Dora stood there on deck, calling to him.

  “You must swim,” Ocho said. “The boat is sinking.” There was little freeboard remaining, the deck was almost awash. Indeed, even as he spoke a wave broke over the deck.

  Dora looked wildly about, unwilling to abandon the dubious safety of the boat. Other people joined her, some on hands and knees, unable to stand. They looked at the two men in the water, at the horizon, at the swells, at the sky.

  One woman rocked back and forth on her heels, moaning softly, her eyes open.

  “Swim,” the old man told Ocho. “Get away before it goes.”

  He turned his back on the boat and began swimming. Ocho followed.

  After a minute or so Ocho ceased paddling and looked back. The boat was going under, people were trying to swim away. He heard a woman screaming—Dora, perhaps.

  The mast toppled slowly as the swells capsized Angel del Mar. Then, with an audible sigh as the last of the air escaped, the boat went under.

  Heads bobbed in the swells—just how many Ocho couldn’t tell.

  He ceased swimming. There was no place to go, no reason to expend the energy.

  He was so tired, so exhausted. He closed his eyes, felt the sun burning on his eyelids.

  He opened them when salt water choked him. He couldn’t sleep in the sea.

  So that was how it would be. He would struggle to stay afloat until exhaustion and dehydration overcame him and he went to sleep, then he would drown.

  The screaming woman would not be quiet. She paused only to fill her lungs, then screamed on.

  A line in the sky caught his attention. A contrail. A jet conning against the blue. Oh, to be there, and not here.

  He was listening to the screaming woman, trying not to go to sleep, when he felt something bump against his foot. Something solid.

  He lowered his face into the water, opened his eyes.

  Sharks!

  The president of the United States sat listening to the national security adviser with
a scowl on his face. The president usually scowled when he didn’t like what he was hearing, the chairman of the joint chiefs, General Tater Totten, thought sourly.

  The adviser was laying it out, card by card: The Cubans had at least six intermediate-range ballistic missiles, which the staff thought were probably sited in hidden silos, away from the cameras of reconnaissance planes and satellites. According to the documents obtained from the safe of Alejo Vargas, the missiles now carried biological warheads, apparently a super-virulent strain of polio. Some of the warheads stolen from Nuestra Señora de Colón were now stacked in a warehouse on the waterfront in a Cuban provincial town, Antilla.

  Complicating everything were the riots and demonstrations going on in the large cities of Cuba. No one was moving aggressively to quell the unrest; the army was not patrolling the cities; in fact, people in Cuba were openly speculating that Fidel Castro was dead.

  CIA believed that Castro was indeed dead; the director said so at the start of the meeting.

  “If Castro has bit the big one, who is running the show down there? Who is the successor?” The secretary of state asked that question.

  “Hector Sedano, we hope,” the adviser said, glancing at the president, who was examining his fingernails. “Operation Flashlight was designed to whittle Alejo Vargas down to size.”

  “Stealing a safeful of blackmail files will hurt Vargas, but it won’t do much to help Hector Sedano,” General Totten muttered. “I seem to recall a CIA summary that says Hector might be in prison just now.”

  “That’s right,” the director agreed, nodding. “We think the rioting is directly due to the fact Sedano is in prison. The lid is coming off down there.”

  “We’ve had our finger in a lot of Cuban pies,” the president said disgustedly, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “Probably too many. I seem to recall that the CIA did some fast work with a computer, emptied Fidel’s Swiss bank accounts.”

  “The money is still in those banks,” the director said quickly. “We just created a few new accounts and moved the money to them. Don’t want anyone to think we are into bank robbery these days.”

  “Why not? This administration has been accused of everything else,” the president said lightly. Poking fun at himself was his talent, the reason he had made it to the very top of the heap in American politics. He laced his fingers together, leaned back in his chair. “If we had any sense we would let the Cubans sort out their own problems. Lord knows we have enough of our own.”