Cuba

by Stephen Coonts

  Ocho Sedano looked at it for fifteen minutes before the thought occurred to him that he should find out what it was. Something white, floating perhaps fifteen feet away, slightly off to his right.

  Now that the existence of the white thing had registered on his consciousness, he made the effort to turn, to stroke toward it.

  He had been in the water all day. The sun would soon be down and he would be alone on the sea. After the sharks this morning there had been only Ocho and the old man; now the fisherman no longer answered his calls. Hadn’t for several hours, in fact. Maybe he just drifted out of hailing range, Ocho thought. That must be it.

  The sharks killed all the others, sparing only the two men who had gone off the sinking boat first and swam away from the group. At least he thought the others were dead—he had no way of knowing the truth of it.

  He had thought about the decision to swim away from the sinking Angel del Mar all day, off and on, trying to decide just what instinct had told him and the old man to get away from the others. Drowning people often drag under anyone they can reach—no doubt that knowledge was a factor in the old man’s thinking, in his thinking, for he did not want to put the responsibility for his life on anyone but himself.

  Perhaps those who were attacked by the sharks were the lucky ones. Their ordeal was over.

  Dora—had she been one of them?

  Diego Coca was already dead, of course. He died … a day or two ago … didn’t he? Jumped into the sea and swam away from the Angel del Mar.

  Ah, Diego, you ass. I hope you are burning in hell.

  He reached for the white thing, which of course skittered out of reach. He paddled some more, reached up under it.

  A milk jug. A one-gallon plastic milk jug without a cap, floating upside down. Apparently intact. He lifted the milky white plastic jug from the sea, let the water drain out, then lowered it into the water. The thing made a powerful float.

  He pulled it toward him.

  Hard to hold on to, but very buoyant.

  How could he hold it, use the power of its buoyancy to keep himself afloat through the night?

  Inside his shirt? He worked the jug down, tried to get it under his shirt. The thing escaped once, shot out of the water. He snagged it, tried it again.

  The second time he got it under his shirt. The thing tried to push him over backward, but if he leaned into it, he could keep his weight pretty much balanced over it. Then he could just float, ride without effort.

  As long as he could keep the open neck facing downward, the jug would keep him up.

  Ocho was celebrating his good fortune when a swell tipped him over. He fought back upright, adjusted the jug in the evening light.

  Maybe he should just forget the jug—he seemed to be working as hard staying over it as he did treading water.

  With the last rays of the sun in his face, he decided to keep the jug, learn to ride it.

  “I’m going to be rescued,” he said silently to himself, “going to be rescued. I must just have patience.”

  After a bit he added, “And faith in the Lord.”

  Ocho was a Catholic, of course, but he had never been one to pray much. He wondered if he should pray now. Surely God knew about the mess he was in—what could he conceivably tell Him that He didn’t already know?

  In the twilight the water became dark. Still restless, still rising and falling, but dark and black as the grave.

  He would probably die this night. Sometime during the night he would go to sleep and drown or a shark would rip at him or he would just run out of will. He was oh so very tired, a lethargy that weighed on every muscle.

  Tonight, he thought.

  But I don’t want to die. I want to live!

  Please, God, let me live one more day. If I am not rescued tomorrow, then let me die tomorrow night.

  That was a reasonable request. His strength would give out by tomorrow night anyway.

  The last of the light faded from the sky, and he was alone on the face of the sea.

  La Cabana Prison was an old pile of masonry. In the hot, humid climate of Cuba the interior was cool, a welcome respite from the heat. Yet in the dark corridors filled with stagnant air the odor of mold and decay seemed almost overpowering. The iron bars and grates and cell doors were wet with condensation and covered with layers of rust.

  During the day small windows with nearly opaque, dirty glass admitted what light there was. At night naked bulbs hanging where two corridors met or an iron gate barred the way lit the interior; and for whole stretches of corridors and cells there was no light at all.

  Hector Sedano saw the flashlight even before he heard people coming along the corridor. One flashlight and two or three, maybe even four people—it was difficult to tell.

  The flashlight led the visitors to this cell, and it turned to pin him on the cot.

  “There he is.”

  “I will talk to him alone.”

  “Yes, Señor Presidente.”

  One man remained standing in the semidarkness outside the cell after the others left. After the flashlight Hector’s eyes adjusted slowly. Now he could see him—Alejo Vargas.

  Vargas lit a short cigarillo. As he struck the match Hector closed his eyes, and kept them closed until he smelled tobacco smoke and heard Vargas’s voice.

  “Father Sedano, we meet again.”

  Hector thought that remark didn’t deserve a reply.

  “I seem to recall a conversation we had, what—two or three years ago?” Vargas said thoughtfully. “I told you that religion and politics don’t mix.”

  “You even had a biblical quote ready to fire at me, Mark twelve-seventeen. Most unexpected.”

  “You didn’t take my advice.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t often follow advice, do you?”

  “No.”

  “I came here tonight to see if you wish to make your peace with Caesar and join my cabinet, perhaps as our ambassador to the Church.”

  “You’re the president now?”

  “Temporarily. Until the election.”

  “Then the title will become permanent.”

  “I don’t think anyone will want to run against me.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “But let’s take it a day at a time. Temporary acting president Vargas asks you to serve your country in this capacity.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “I want to sleep with a clean conscience, which is why I came here tonight to make the offer.”

  “Your conscience is easily cleansed if that is all it takes.”

  “It does not trouble me too much.”

  “A man who lives as you do, a lively conscience would hurt worse than a bad tooth.”

  “So your answer is no.”

  “That it is.”

  “But at least you considered my offer, so I can sleep knowing you chose your own fate.”

  “My fate is in God’s hands.”

  “Ah, if only I had the time to discuss religion with you, an intelligent, learned man. Time does not allow me that luxury. Still, I have one other little thing to discuss with you, and I caution you, this is not the time for a yes or no answer. This thing you must think about very carefully and give me your answer later.”

  Sedano scratched his head. Vargas probably couldn’t see past the glow of his cigarillo tip, so it didn’t matter much what he did.

  “I want to know what Fidel did with the gold from the pesos. I want you to tell me.”

  “Me? I was six years old when he melted the gold, if he did.”

  “I think you know. I think Fidel told Mercedes, and Mercedes told you. So I have come to ask you where it is. Will you tell me?”

  “She didn’t tell me about gold.”

  “I should not have asked so quickly. I told myself I would not do that, then I did. I apologize. I will ask you later, when you have had time to think about the question and all the implications.”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.�
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  “Well, think about it; that is all I ask. Of course I will talk to Mercedes. I think she also told you or the CIA about Fidel’s Swiss bank accounts. When Maximo went to get the money it was not there. I would like to have been there to see the look on Maximo’s face—ah, yes, that was a moment, my friend!”

  He chuckled, then drew on the cigarillo, made the tip glow.

  “Maximo thinks the Swiss stole it; he is very gullible. I smell the CIA. The CIA could reach into Swiss banks as easily as you and I breathe.”

  “The world is quite complex.”

  “Isn’t it?” Vargas sighed. “All the strings lead to Mercedes. She knew too much for her own good. I think she will do the right thing. She is a loyal patriot. With Colonel Santana asking the questions, I have faith that she will do what is best for Cuba.”

  Hector could feel the sweat beading up on his forehead. He made sure his voice was under his complete control before he spoke. “For Cuba?”

  “For Cuba, yes. Cuba and me, our interests are identical. I want the gold, Father, and I intend to get it. As you sit here rotting, you think about that.”

  Alejo Vargas turned and walked away, still puffing on the cigarillo.

  The smell of the tobacco smoke lingered in the cell for hours. Hector fancied that he could still smell it when daylight began shining through the window high in the wall at the end of the corridor.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The submariners put the computer in a plastic garbage bag to keep it dry, then put bag and computer into a backpack that one of the sailors had for his liberty gear. William Henry Chance put on the backpack and the sailors adjusted the straps.

  “You should be okay, sir,” they said. At a nod from the sound-powered telephone talker, Chance started up the ladder with Tommy Carmellini right behind him. They came out of the hatch on the submarine’s deck forward of the island. The deck wasn’t much, merely wet steel that curved away right and left into the black ocean.

  Hovering in the darkness overhead was a helicopter—the downwash from the rotor blades made it hard to breathe. Amid the flashing lights and spotlights, his eyes had a hard time adjusting—Chance felt almost blind. One of the sailors on the deck put a horse collar over his head and he went up into the chopper first. Then Carmellini.

  A strong set of hands pulled him into the chopper. After a wave at the officers in the sail cockpit, Carmellini used hands and feet to get over to the canvas bench opposite the open door where Chance had found a seat.

  Forty-five minutes later the helicopter landed on the flight deck of USS United States. As the rotors wound down, an officer in khakis came to the chopper’s door, and shouted, “Mr. Chance? Mr. Carmellini?”

  “Right here.”

  “My name is Toad Tarkington. Will you gentlemen come with me, please? The admiral is waiting.”

  Tommy Carmellini felt completely out of place, completely lost. After the submarine and the helicopter, the strange sounds, smells, and sensations of the huge ship underway in a night sea seemed to max out his ability to adjust.

  The compartment where Toad took the two agents was packed with people, all talking among themselves. Still, compared to the flight deck and the sensations of the helicopter, it was an oasis of calm. Toad led them to a corner of the room and introduced them to Rear Admiral Jake Grafton.

  Grafton was a trim officer about six feet tall. The admiral’s gray eyes captured Tommy’s attention. The eyes seemed to measure you from head to toe, see all there was to see, then move on. Only when the eyes looked elsewhere did you see that Grafton’s nose was a trifle too large, and one side of his forehead bore an old scar that was slightly less tan than the skin surrounding it.

  Toad Tarkington was several inches shorter than the admiral and heavier through the shoulders. He was a tireless whirlwind who dazzled a person meeting him for the first time with quick wit and boundless energy, which seemed to radiate from him like the aura of the sun. He smiled easily and often, revealing a set of perfect white teeth that would have made any dentist proud.

  Jake Grafton and William Henry Chance stood behind Toad watching him work Alejo Vargas’s computer. Toad stared at the screen intently while his fingers flew over the keys.

  Soon they were plotting positions on a chart. “Those missiles have to be at these locations, Admiral,” Toad said, pointing at the places he had marked on the chart, “or the data in the computer is worthless.” He looked over his shoulder at Chance. “Could this computer be a plant?”

  Chance glanced at Carmellini, who was sitting in a chair against the wall studying the layout and furnishings of the planning space and the knots of people engaged in a variety of tasks. The roar of conversation made the place seem greatly disorganized, which Tommy realized was an illusion. Charts on the wall decorated with classified information, planning tables, file cabinets sporting serious padlocks, battle lanterns on the overhead, copy machines, burn bags—the place reminded him of the inner sanctums of the CIA’s headquarters at Langley.

  “Very doubtful,” Chance answered, and bent over to study the chart Toad was marking.

  “I make it six sites,” Toad said.

  “Could there be more missiles?” Jake Grafton asked. He too glanced at Carmellini, then turned to Chance. “You see the pitfalls if there are missiles we don’t know about?”

  “Yes, sir. I can only say we have seen evidence for at least six.”

  “Six silos,” Toad mused, studying the locations.

  “There is a warhead manufacturing facility someplace on that island,” Chance said. “The viruses would have to be dried out, put in whatever medium the Cubans believe will keep them alive and virulent and dormant until the warhead explodes, then the medium sealed inside the warheads. The facility will not be large, but it will have clean rooms, air scrubbers, remote handling equipment, and I would think a fairly well equipped lab on site.”

  “Any ideas?” Jake Grafton asked.

  “I was hoping that the satellite reconnaissance people might be able to find the site if we tell them what to look for.”

  “We’ll have them look, certainly, but you have no independent information about where this facility might be?”

  “No.”

  Jake motioned to Carmellini, who leaned in so that he could hear better. “Here is the situation,” the admiral said. “The White House has ordered us to go get those missile silos as soon as possible. Bombing the silos is out—we are to remove the warheads and destroy the missiles. What my staff and these other folks here tonight are trying to decide is how best to go about doing what the president wants us to do. Obviously, if we had enough time we could bring in forces from the States and assault the silo locations with forces tailored for the job. If we had enough time we could even do a dress rehearsal, make sure everyone is on the same sheet of music. Unfortunately, the White House wants the silos taken out as soon as possible.”

  “How soon is possible?” Chance asked.

  Jake Grafton took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “That’s the sixty-four dollar question. We must find out what’s there before we go charging in.”

  He stood, walked over to a chart of Cuba that was posted on the bulkhead. He was looking at a penciled line on the chart that went through the Windward Passage and along the northern coast of Cuba, all the way to the narrowest portion of the Florida Straits. The cruisers should be in position by six o’clock this evening.

  Jake turned from the chart and gestured at the people at the planning tables. “These folks are just looking at possibilities. We must assemble sufficient forces to do the job, yet we run huge risks if we take the time to assemble overwhelming force. There is a balance there. When we see the latest satellite stuff we’ll have a better idea.”

  “I would be amazed if there are any troops around these silos,” William Henry Chance said. “Their existence has been overlooked by two generations of photo interpretation specialists. The Cubans know that the whole island is painstakingly photographed on a
regular basis—we’ve been looking at those damned silos for forty years and didn’t know what they were. They must be underground and well camouflaged.”

  “I’m not sending anybody after those things until I know what the opposition is,” Jake said bluntly. “I don’t launch suicide missions.”

  “Are the silos your only target?” Chance asked.

  Jake Grafton examined the tall agent with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “The Cubans grew the viruses for their warheads in a lab in the science building of the University of Havana. If we walk off with the warheads in the missiles, there is nothing to prevent the Cubans from cooking up another batch and putting it in planes to spray all over Florida and Georgia and wherever.”

  “You are suggesting that we target their lab?”

  “I highly recommended it. Chances to step on cockroaches are few and far between: we better put Alejo Vargas out of business while we have the chance.”

  “All I can do is make a recommendation to Washington,” the admiral said.

  “And the processing facility. If we are going to take Cuba out of the biological warfare business, we should do it right.”

  “Can we bomb any of these places?” Toad Tarkington asked.

  “Oh, no,” Chance said. “A bomb exploding in a lab full of poliomyelitis virus would be the equivalent of a biological warhead detonating. The virus would be explosively liberated. Everyone downwind for a couple hundred miles, maybe even farther, would probably die. No, the only way to destroy the virus is with fire.”

  Jake Grafton scratched his head.

  “The temperature would have to come up really quickly to kill the viruses before the place started venting to the atmosphere,” Chance added. “A regular old house fire wouldn’t do it. We need something a lot hotter.”

  “The fires of hell,” Toad said, and his listeners nodded.

  The first batches of satellite imagery began coming off the printers within an hour after the suspected silo locations were encrypted and transmitted. The air intelligence specialists were soon bent over the images, studying them with magnifying glasses. Before long Jake Grafton was shoulder to shoulder with the experts.