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Cuba

Page 32

by Stephen Coonts

The battle group steamed south from Guantánamo bay. For about an hour the southern hills of Cuba were visible from the decks of the ships, but they soon dropped over the horizon and all that could be seen in any direction was the eternal ocean, always changing, always the same. It was then that the carrier launched an E-2 Hawkeye, which carried its radar up to 20,000 feet. Everything the Hawkeye’s early warning radar saw was datalinked to the carrier’s computers, where specialists kept track of the tactical picture.

  Toad Tarkington took Jake aside and showed him the latest message from the National Security Council. He was directed to destroy the viruses in the laboratory in the University of Havana’s science building, find and destroy the warhead-manufacturing facility, and to remove the warheads from the six missiles and destroy them in their silos.

  As Jake read the message, Toad said, “They don’t want much, do they?”

  “Where in hell is the warhead-manufacturing facility?” Jake groused. He went to find William Henry Chance to ask him that question. He found Chance in the wardroom drinking coffee with Tommy Carmellini. They were the only two people there at ten in the morning.

  “Do you have any idea where we might find this factory for making biological warheads?”

  “Sit down, Admiral. Let me buy you a cup of navy coffee.”

  Jake sat. Carmellini went for the coffee while Jake repeated the question.

  “It has to be someplace between the science building and the missile silos,” Chance said. “No one in their right mind would want to haul that stuff very far. A traffic accident of some type …”

  Jake Grafton’s brows knitted. He tapped on the table. “If you were going to haul polio viruses around, what kind of truck would you use?”

  Chance shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “I’ve been thinking about it for five hours now, and I’ve got an idea. We’ll run it though the recon computers and see what pops out.” He got up from his chair.

  “Mind sharing your epiphany?”

  “I’d haul the stuff in milk trucks. Clean, sterile, and sealed. A dairy should have a sterile environment and the equipment to mix the viruses with some sort of a base, then load them into warheads.”

  Jake turned and marched from the room just as Carmellini approached with the extra coffee cup and saucer.

  “He didn’t stay long, did he?”

  “No,” Chance grunted, and sipped at the coffee Carmellini had brought from the urn in the corner of the room.

  “Think Grafton’s big enough for this job?” Carmellini asked.

  “Yeah. I think he is.”

  Three dairies met Jake’s specifications—they were located between Havana and the first of the missile silos, which were arranged in a line beginning forty miles east of Havana and going east from there. The silos were about fifteen miles apart.

  “Cows. See if they have cows around them.”

  “When?”

  “The latest satellite photography. Whenever that was.”

  Two of the dairies no longer had cattle in the adjacent fields. The one that did was scratched off the list. The other two were examined minutely by the carrier’s intelligence center experts and the National Security Agency photo interpreters in Maryland, who conferred back and forth via encrypted satellite telephones. The experts decided that neither dairy could be eliminated as a possible site for the warhead factory.

  “We’ll do ’em both,” Jake Grafton said.

  By three that afternoon the staff and air wing planners had come up with a draft plan. Actually the task, destruction of eight targets, was a relatively simple military one. Tomahawk missiles could take out the lab and the dairies without muss or fuss. They could probably also destroy the missiles in their silos, as the silos were hardened in a simpler age, when the threat was unguided air-dropped bombs. With their ability to power-dive straight down on a hardened target and penetrate ten or twelve feet of reinforced concrete, Tomahawks were the weapon of choice.

  And they were out of the question. The president absolutely refused to take the chance that polio viruses might escape from a bombed lab or silo and kill tens of thousands of Cubans in their beds. An event like that would be political dynamite, with repercussions beyond calculation. No, the politicians said, American troops were going to have to lay their lives on the line to prevent just such an occurrence. And, Jake Grafton well knew, some of them would die.

  He had already put the wheels in motion. Preliminary messages had been sent to other commands, asking them for the assistance Jake thought he would require. A thousand details remained to be worked out by the various staffs involved, but the machine was in motion. The primary task Jake still had to address was setting the day and hour for the attack.

  As he stood looking at the charts of Cuba that covered the wall in the planning space, Jake and his staff wrestled with the timing question. Captain Gil Pascal, the chief of staff, argued that the operation should be delayed until such time as U-2s could fly a photo recon mission and get the very latest enemy troop positions.

  “Vargas made a speech today,” Jake replied. The speech and a translation had played several times on television. Jake had even stopped once to watch it.

  “Hue City and Guilford Courthouse are racing for the Florida Straits,” Toad Tarkington argued. “This battle group is underway. The Cubans may find out about these ship movements and put two and two together and get their wind up. They may be able to put twenty-four hours of delay to better use than we can.”

  “That’s the nub of it, isn’t it?” Jake mused, and stood looking at the charts, trying to imagine how it would be.

  Sure, things would go wrong. People were going to have the wrong frequencies, go to the wrong places, everything that could go wrong would. Still, the missions were simple.

  The real issue, Jake concluded, was the follow-up. What were you going to do if the troops ran into more trouble than they could handle? How would you extract them? How would you destroy the target?

  Jake called the Pentagon on the satellite telephone. He was patched through via land line to General Totten at the White House.

  After the usual greetings, Jake said, “Sir, two points. First, I would like to address the proposal to delay the operation until Patriot SAM batteries can be moved into southern Florida. If we pop a Cuban missile over southern Florida the cloud of viruses may drift over to Miami or Tampa. I don’t think we gain anything by waiting for Patriot batteries.”

  “We’ve about reached the same conclusion here, but there has been vigorous debate. What is your second point?”

  “In my view, the key to getting this done is our willingness to do whatever is required to accomplish the mission.”

  “The president is listening, Admiral. Explain yourself.”

  “As I see it, General, our choice is to either wait until we are convinced we can pull it off, or go now before the Cubans have a chance to garrison these sites with troops. The lab in Havana presents problems that the other sites do not. We will have to tackle the lab after the missiles are destroyed.”

  “Okay.”

  “If the troops assaulting the silos run into more Cubans than they can handle, we must either add more forces or extract our men. If we elect to extract our people, we still have the problem of the missile in the silo and we will have handed the Cubans a victory in a fight we cannot afford to lose.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “We won’t be able to go back later with more people. We get one bite of the apple, sir. I propose that you authorize me to use whatever force is required to accomplish the mission, short of nuclear weapons.”

  Jake Grafton heard the president loudly say, “I’m not giving him or anybody else the authority to risk a catastrophic release of toxins. No.”

  “We’ll call you back,” General Totten said, and hung up.

  Mercedes went to stay with Dona Maria Vieuda de Sedano, to cook for her and clean and do whatever needed to be done. She had stayed with her mother-in-law
in the past, after her husband, Jorge, died—fortunately the two women genuinely liked each other.

  She and Dona Maria ate lunch on the little porch of the bungalow so they could enjoy the breeze blowing in from the sea. It was strong today, whipping the palm fronds and rippling the sugarcane. Little puffy clouds threw severe shadows that raced over the ground.

  Doña Maria had gone back inside for a nap and Mercedes was sewing a blouse together when a limo drove up and Maximo got out. He came up the short walk, paused at the steps, and looked at her. “I thought I would find you here,” he said.

  “Mima’s sleeping.”

  “I came to see you.”

  She nodded, continued working on the blouse. He stayed on the dirt and scraggly grass, walked around so the porch railing was between them.

  “Vargas made a speech this morning. It was on television.”

  “Hmm,” she said. Doña Maria did not have a television, and Maximo knew that.

  “He is the president now.”

  “I have heard.”

  “Did he really kill Fidel?”

  “No.”

  Her thread broke. She got out the spool of thread and rethreaded the needle.

  “Would you tell me if he had?”

  “What did you come for, Maximo?”

  “I need your help.”

  She knotted the thread and began a new seam.

  “You don’t think much of me, do you?”

  “I don’t think of you at all.”

  He leaned on the porch railing, crossing his arms. “Where did Fidel hide the gold?”

  “I didn’t know he had any,” she said, not looking up from her work. “He didn’t even have gold in his teeth.”

  “The gold pesos the government called in after the revolution—that gold.”

  “I have no idea,” she said.

  “I think you do. I think Fidel told you.”

  “Think what you like.”

  “He wouldn’t let the secret die with him.”

  “Maximo, look at me. If I had a pocketful of gold, would I be sitting here on the porch of a tiny, ninety-five-year-old bungalow with a thatched roof beside the road to Varadero, sewing myself a shirt?”

  “I don’t think you have it—I think you know where it is.”

  She snorted and went back to the needle and the seam.

  “You don’t want the gold for yourself, I know. But I need it. Not all of it, just a little. I must get out of Cuba.”

  A strand of hair fell across her face. She brushed it back.

  “We could leave together, Mercedes, if we had some of that gold. You could go anywhere on earth you wanted, live the rest of your life without worry, without fear, without need. Think of it! A new life, a new beginning. How much of this heat and dirt and hopeless poverty do you want, anyway?”

  “Forget the gold, Maximo. If there is any, it is not for you.”

  He backed away from the railing, stood in the sun with the sea wind playing at his hair. “Think about it,” he said. “Vargas is no fool; he wants the gold too. One of these days he will send Santana around to see you. Think about what you are going to say to him when he comes.”

  He walked to the waiting limo. The driver turned the car in the road and headed back toward Havana.

  Toad Tarkington was the only person in the room with Jake as they waited for the chairman of the joint chiefs to call from the White House.

  “What do you want from them, Admiral?”

  “I want the authority to do whatever I have to do to destroy those viruses,” Jake Grafton explained. “Once the shooting starts, we have to win.”

  “What if the president won’t give you that authority?”

  “He has a right to say that. We’ll go do our best, and if we can’t cut it without using Tomahawks or laser-guided weapons, then we’ll call him up and say so.”

  “What is the problem here?” Toad demanded. “If there is a toxin release he won’t be the guy responsible. Fidel Castro and Alejo Vargas are the guilty parties. This is their country.”

  Jake shook his head. “If there is a toxin release in America, the president must be able to prove that he did everything humanly possible to prevent it. If there is a release in Cuba … well, he will need to show people around the world that he did what he could to prevent it while still eliminating the threat to the U.S. Elimination of the threat is the key here, and I hope they understand that in Washington.” He smacked the wall with his hand. “Dammit, we only get one shot at those viruses.”

  “I wonder if anyone in Washington is thinking about the Bay of Pigs,” Toad mused. “That turned into a debacle because Kennedy wasn’t willing to commit enough resources.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” Jake Grafton said.

  When the telephone rang, General Totten was on the line. “Admiral, we shall word it like this: ‘Your mission is to eliminate the threat to the United States. In completing your mission you are instructed to do everything within your power to minimize the possibility of a toxin release in Cuba. You may use any forces and weapons in your command except nuclear or CBW weapons, and you may request assistance from any command in the U.S. armed forces.’”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll have that on the wire as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir. I want to thank you and the president. We’ll do our best.”

  “I know you will, sailor. When are you going?”

  “Tomorrow night, sir. In view of all the factors involved, that is my choice.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Over Cuba the next morning the cloud cover was typical for that time of year: as the sun rose the prevailing westerly winds spawned cumulus clouds over the warming land. The longer the clouds remained over land, the higher they grew. In the area east of Havana where the Americans believed the missile silos and processing lab were located the cloud cover averaged forty or fifty percent by ten in the morning, enough to inhibit satellite and U-2 photography of the area. Infrared photography was not affected by the clouds, nor were the synthetic-aperture radar studies done by air force E-3 Sentry AWACS aircraft.

  Oblivious to the intense scrutiny that the island was now getting from the Americans, General Alba conferred that morning with Alejo Vargas, then ordered troops and tanks moved into position around the silos. There were actually eight silos, but only six held operational missiles. The other two missiles had been used as sources of spare parts through the years. Had Alba and Vargas realized what was coming, they might have elected to dissipate the American military effort by garrisoning all eight silos: as it was, they didn’t think of it.

  The sun had been up just two hours when two C-130 Hercules landed at the naval air station at Key West, Florida. On the civilian side of the field people stood and watched as the Hercs parked on the other side of the runway. Soon navy personnel began unloading the transports. The civilian kibitzers did not know what the pallets and canisters contained, and after a while they went on about their business. Four armed marines in combat gear took up locations where they could guard the transports.

  Among other things, the transports had delivered belted 20-mm ammunition for miniguns, Hellfire missiles, flares, and 2.75-inch rockets. They also delivered tools and spare parts to work on Marine Corps AH-1W SuperCobras.

  Two hours after the Hercs landed, the first two SuperCobras settled onto the military mat. By noon sixteen of the mottled green helicopters were parked in the sun.

  The two-man crews didn’t leave the base, but went into an old, decrepit navy hangar nearby for briefings.

  Two more C-130s wearing marine markings landed an hour or so later. They parked near the first two. As navy trucks began refueling the planes, marines disembarked and spread their gear on the ramp. They lounged around, a few walked a safe distance away and lit cigarettes, and after awhile a navy truck brought hot food.

  Troops, tanks, and trucks were moving in Cuba by noon, blocking roads and creating traffic jams. By midafternoon the E-3 Se
ntry crews had alerted the National Security Agency, which passed the information on to USS United States. Jake Grafton went to the ship’s intelligence center to see what the computers could tell him.

  After listening to the briefer, Jake Grafton muttered, “Damn.”

  He went over the data, then asked, “How much combat power are they moving, and when will it be in place?”

  In New York City the U.S. ambassador to the United Nations paid a call on the Cuban ambassador. After exchanging civilities, the American said bluntly, “My government has asked me to inform you that if the Cuban government releases biological toxins of any kind in the United States, for any reason, the American government will massively retaliate.”

  “‘Massively retaliate’?” The Cuban’s eyes widened. “What does that mean?”

  “Sir, I was instructed to deliver the message, not to interpret it. Here is the statement in writing.” The American handed over a sheet of paper and took her leave.

  Aboard USS Hue City, now underway precisely halfway between Cuba and Key West at ten knots, Ocho Sedano awoke in midafternoon from a deep sleep. He found that he was in a hospital bed on a small ward, with two intravenous solutions dripping into his veins. His vision was blurred, he could not focus his eyes.

  The doctor on the ward noticed that he was awake and came over to check him. In a few minutes an American sailor who spoke Spanish came to interpret.

  “Your eyes are sore from the salt of the water. They will get better. Can you tell us your name, señor?”

  “Juan Sedano,” he whispered, because he could not talk above a whisper. “They call me El Ocho.”

  “And where are you from?”

  “Cuba.”

  “How long were you in the sea?”

  “Two days and nights, I think. I am not sure. Maybe more than that.”

  The doctor put a solution into Ocho’s eyes while the questions and answers were flying back and forth. After blinking mightily Ocho thought he could see a little better. The doctor was examining Ocho’s fingertips and the calluses on his hands. Now he held up Ocho’s hand and peeled off a callus. Then he smiled. “You were very lucky.”

 

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