Cuba

by Stephen Coonts

  “You’ve been planning to spring this on me all day, haven’t you?”

  “I could take a satellite phone, give you a worm’s-eye view of the action, let you know if there is really a problem.”

  “Did the marine det CO approach you with this marvelous idea, or did you approach him?”

  Toad turned his eyes to the ceiling. “An officer I know well used to say, ‘You know me.’”

  “I think I know that guy too,” Jake said, and chuckled. “Oh, all right, damn it—you can go. Gil and I will try to hold the fort without you. If the backup Osprey isn’t needed, you’ll be part of the cavalry. Tell the grunts to saddle up.”

  The Spanish-speaking sailor who acted as an interpreter shook Ocho Sedano awake. “Ocho,” he said. “Ocho, a question has arisen. We wish to know if you are related to Hector Sedano.”

  Ocho opened his eyes and focused on the interpreter, who appeared reasonably clear: His eyes were better, much better. He rolled over, then sat up in bed. He was still in sick bay aboard Hue City.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living,” said the American sailor.

  “It is good to be alive,” Ocho whispered.

  “Did you ever give up hope?”

  “I suppose. I thought I would die, and was waiting for it. But I always wanted to live.”

  The sailor grinned. This was the first American he had ever gotten to know, and he had a good grin, Ocho thought.

  “The officers want to know,” the sailor said, “if you are related to Hector Sedano.”

  “He is my brother.”

  “I will tell them.”

  Ocho nodded, then rubbed his head and stretched. He was hungry and thirsty. A glass of water was sitting on a rolling table beside the bed, so he drained it.

  “May I have some food?”

  “I will bring some.”

  Ocho looked the sailor in the eyes. “I want to go back to Cuba. I should never have left.”

  “I will tell them,” the sailor said, and left him there.

  William Henry Chance and Tommy Carmellini argued with Toad about how many marines wearing CBW suits should go into the warhead factory with them. “Just Tommy and I,” Chance said. “The more people that are in there the greater the chance of an accident.”

  “How are you going to get your gear in there?”

  “An armload at a time. It will take a little longer, but with only two guys going in and out, this whole evolution will be safer.”

  “What if the Cuban Army shows up while you’re working?”

  “The marines can defend us until the place goes up.”

  They were in a ready room under the flight deck dressing in a corner under the television set, which was showing a continuous briefing by the Air Intelligence types. Radio frequencies, threat envelopes, timing, call signs, weather, everything was on the tube.

  Carmellini was paying close attention to the briefers, Chance was arguing with Toad. “And I’m not taking a rifle or hand grenades or rations or any of that combat crap.”

  “A pistol, then.”

  “Got my own. Don’t want two.”

  “Why are you being so obstinate, Mr. Chance?”

  Chance sat down heavily in one of the ready-room chairs.

  “I guess I’ve got a bad feeling about this commando stuff,” he said. “Charging in decked out like Captain America with rifle in hand scares me silly. Everybody and his brother will start shooting, and with cultures above-ground in vulnerable containers …” He shivered. “If we sneak in in civilian clothes … well, that’s what I’m used to. This military stuff frightens me.”

  “You’re going to look funny walking into a dairy in civilian clothes with flares on your shoulders if there are Cuban troops sitting around the place guarding the cows.”

  “You’re right, I know.” Chance shrugged.

  “Gonna be an adventure,” Tommy Carmellini tossed in.

  “You guys are big boys,” Toad Tarkington said. “I’m not going to nursemaid you. But this isn’t a game—a lot of lives are at stake. If you screw this up and we gotta go back in there later and fix it, you guys better be dead. Don’t bother coming back.”

  Toad said it matter-of-factly, as if he were discussing a payroll deduction. Chance suddenly felt small.

  “Okay,” he said. “Two other guys in CBW suits. But I’m in charge. If I go down, Tommy is.”

  “Fine,” said Toad Tarkington, and went to find an encrypted telephone.

  Terror wasn’t going to be enough to keep Alejo Vargas in office. He knew that. He could put the fear of God in the little sons of bitches and keep it there, but to sleep nights in Fidel’s house he was going to have to govern the country, to give a little here, a little there, and so on. He was prepared to do that—he had watched Fidel manipulate these people all of his adult life.

  Today he sat in his office at the Ministry of the Interior—he had had no time to move to the presidential palace—receiving the members of the Council of State, of which he was the president.

  “Señor Ferrara, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

  Ferrara was short, fat, and wheezed when he moved. He was a member of the Council of State and the minister of electric power. He dropped into a chair across the desk from Vargas and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Good day, Señor President.”

  Colonel Santana handed Vargas Ferrara’s affidavit. Vargas merely glanced at the signature, then laid it in his top right-hand drawer with the others. He didn’t read it because he knew exactly what the affidavit contained—an emotional eyewitness account of the murder of Raúl Castro by Hector Sedano. Vargas and Santana had drafted the document this morning.

  Before each member of the Council of State met with Vargas, Santana presented them with an affidavit for signature. Most intuitively understood that signatures were mandatory, and those that didn’t had the facts of life explained to them. So far, all had signed.

  “I appreciate your support in this matter, Ferrara.”

  “I will be frank with you, Vargas. That document means nothing.” He gestured toward the desk drawer. “You may be able to crack the whip in Havana, but the people do not support you. They want Hector Sedano in the presidential palace.”

  “They will find a place in their heart for me.”

  “Fidel Castro lasted for over forty years because he had the support of the people. The members of the National Assembly, the Council of State, the ministers, could not oppose him because they had no base of support. The Department of State Security didn’t control the population—Fidel did.”

  “He did not tolerate opposition, nor will I.”

  Ferrara said nothing.

  What was it about Ferrara? Something was in the files, but he hadn’t looked at that file in years, and now it was gone. “Was it your daughter?”

  Ferrara’s face became a mask.

  “Your daughter … something about your daughter …”

  He stared into Ferrara’s eyes.

  “Help me a little.”

  Even Ferrara’s wheezing had stopped.

  “Maybe it will come to me.” Alejo Vargas leaned back in his chair. “Or maybe I will forget completely.”

  Santana came in just then, handed him a sheet of paper, and said, “The ambassador to the United Nations received this note from the American UN ambassador.”

  “Thank you for stopping by, Señor Ferrara. I appreciate you executing this affidavit. I look forward to working with you in the future. Good day.” Ferrara went.

  Vargas read the note. “Any other American reaction to my speech or their president’s?”

  “Yes, sir. As we expected, the American pundits generally support their president, but there are many who feel the United States has goaded Cuba into military adventurism with their political shunning of Castro. This feeling is widespread in Europe. Around the world there are many who feel that Cuba has endured much oppression at America’s hands.”

  Vargas nodded. All th
e world roots for the underdog.

  “The American carrier battle group that was in Guantánamo is now south of the Isle of Pines. They have only a few planes aloft.”

  “And General Alba? Is he getting troops into position around the silos?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make sure the air force is on full alert, the army, the navy, the antiaircraft missile batteries, everyone. If the Americans come we will bloody their nose, perhaps even launch a missile. One missile will teach them a bitter lesson. They have never seen anything like that virus: they will have no stomach for it. The error of their ways is about to become quite apparent.”

  “You do not believe this ‘massive retaliation’ threat?”

  “It is laughable,” he scoffed. “No American president will ever order the use of weapons of mass destruction, even in retaliation. The Americans stopped making war years ago—they use force to send messages to ‘bad’ governments, never to kill the civilians who support that government. Guilt is the new American ethic: they would be horrified at the murder of the hungry.” He waved his hand dismissively, then became deadly serious:

  “The Yanquis may, however, screw up the courage to use force against our armed forces. If so, the Cuban people will rally to the flag and we shall heroically defend our national honor. And use the missiles to show them the error of their ways.”

  “Cubans are patriots,” Santana agreed. “After the Bay of Pigs, Castro was president for life.”

  “A man with the right enemies can do anything,” Vargas declared, and smiled.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  While Alejo Vargas and Colonel Santana were conferring in Havana, the Americans opened fire. Three Spruance-class destroyers that had sailed from Mayport soon after sunrise were now fifty miles off the Florida coast headed south, well away from the coastal shipping lanes. They began launching Tomahawk cruise missiles from the vertical launchers buried in the deck in front of their bridges. Although each ship carried forty-eight Tomahawks in their vertical launch tubes, they only launched twenty missiles each.

  On the bridge of USS Comte de Grasse the captain watched with binoculars as his missiles leveled out from their launch climb and disappeared into the sea haze. One of the missiles dove into the ocean, making a tiny splash.

  “There went three million bucks,” he muttered.

  After the launch was complete, he called down to Combat on the squawk box. “How many successfully launched?”

  “Nineteen, sir.”

  “And the other ships?”

  “Twenty and eighteen, Captain.”

  “What is the time of flight?”

  “An hour and twenty minutes, sir.”

  “Very well. Report the launch.”

  Not bad, the captain thought, and gave orders to secure from General Quarters.

  God help the Cubans, he thought, then turned to the navigator to discuss the voyage to the Florida Straits, where Comte de Grasse and her sister ships would join the Aegis cruisers already there.

  Aboard USS United States, Jake Grafton seated himself in the admiral’s raised chair in Combat and surveyed the computer displays. Gil Pascal, the chief of staff, was also there along with the ship’s air wing commander, the Combat Control Center officer and the members of his staff.

  Jake leaned over and whispered to Pascal. “See if you can find me some aspirin, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He was looking over the plan and watching the display of commercial traffic going in and out of José Martf International Airport in Havana when a chief petty officer handed him the encrypted satellite phone.

  “Admiral Grafton, sir.”

  “This is the president, Admiral. How goes the war?”

  “We already have Tomahawks in the air, sir, but the Cubans won’t know what’s coming for an hour or so.”

  “We’re sweating the program here in Washington,” the president continued. “Our feet are getting frosty. If we chicken out, could the airborne Tomahawks be intentionally crashed?”

  Jake Grafton took a deep breath and exhaled before he answered. “Yes, sir. That is possible.”

  “Let’s hold on to that option. I’m sitting here with General Totten and the senior leadership of the Congress. I want your opinion on this question: Should we postpone this show for a day or two? Or indefinitely? What are your thoughts?”

  Jake Grafton licked his lips. In his mind’s eye he could see ballistic missiles rising from their silos on pillars of fire, and sailors, just like the ones manning the computers here in Combat aboard United States, sitting in front of radar scopes and computer keyboards aboard the Aegis cruisers.

  “Mr. President, I have also been thinking about the risks. The only thing I can promise is that we will do our best. No one can guarantee results. Still, in my opinion, considering just the military risks, we should go now, without delay.”

  “Thank you, Admiral,” the president said.

  “Jake, this is Tater Totten.”

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Just wanted to say good luck,” the general said, then the connection broke.

  Jake Grafton handed the handset to the chief.

  “Here is your aspirin, Admiral,” Gil Pascal said, holding out water and three white pills.

  Four EA-6B Prowlers sat on the ramp at NAS Key West. Their crews stood lounging around the aircraft. They had flown in just an hour ago, and now the fuel trucks were pulling away. The crews had huddled with the crew of the two C-130 Hercs parked on the ramp, studying charts and checking frequencies. Now it was time to man up.

  As the marines in full combat gear filed aboard the Hercs, the crews of the Prowlers strapped in and started engines. Two of the Prowlers carried three electronic jamming pods on external stations and two HARM missiles. HARM stood for high-speed antiradiation missile. The other two Prowlers carried four HARMS and one jamming pod on the center-line station.

  With the engines running, the pilots closed the Prowlers’ canopies and taxied behind the Hercs toward the duty runway. No one said anything on the radio.

  The flight deck of USS United States came alive. A small army of people in brightly colored shirts swarmed around the airplanes that packed the deck as the flight crews manned up and started engines.

  Light from the setting sun came in at a low angle like a bright spotlight, illuminating,the towering cumulus which dotted the surface of the sea, and made everyone facing west squint or shade their eyes.

  Soon the plane guard rescue helicopter engaged its rotors and lifted off the deck as the first airplanes began taxiing toward the bow and waist catapults.

  Aboard USS Hue City and USS Guilford Courthouse, the two Aegis cruisers on station in the Florida Straits, the afternoon had been a busy one. Twenty-five miles of ocean separated the two ships, but they were linked together electronically as tightly as if they were wired together at a pier.

  As the Hercs and EA-6Bs taxied at Key West, and United States prepared to launch her air wing, the weapons officers aboard the cruisers checked the ships’ inertial systems one more time, compared the GPS locations yet again, then gave the fire order.

  The first of the Tomahawk missiles rose vertically from their launchers on fountains of fire. The wings of the missiles popped out, then the missiles began tilting to the south as they accelerated away into the evening sky.

  The first missiles from each ship were still in sight when the second ones came roaring from the launchers. Each ship launched sixteen missiles, then turned to stay in the race-track pattern they had been using to hold station.

  Sitting in the Combat Control Center aboard United States, Jake Grafton felt the thump as the first bow catapult fired. A second later he felt the number-three cat on the waist slam a plane into the air. His eyes went to the monitor, which was showing a video feed from a camera mounted high in the ship’s island superstructure. Each catapult stroke was felt throughout the ship as the planes were thrown into the sky, one by one.

  A half
dozen planes were still on deck awaiting their turn on the catapults when the destroyers in the carrier’s screen began launching Tomahawk cruise missiles.

  The television cameraman in the ship’s island swung his camera to catch the fireworks. The picture captured the attention of the people in Combat, who paused to watch the missiles roar from their launchers on fountains of reddish yellow fire, almost too brilliant to look at.

  When the last of the missiles was gone, the camera returned to the launching planes.

  Gil Pascal said to Jake, “It’ll go well, Admiral.”

  Jake nodded and took another sip of water.

  The sun seemed to be taking its good ol’ time going down, Lieutenant Commander Marcus Gillispie thought.

  He was at the controls of an EA-6B Prowler that had just launched from United States. He had worked his way around towering buildups reaching up to 10,000 feet and was now above them, looking at the evening sky. The last of the red sunlight played on the tops of the clouds, but the canyons between them were purple and gray shading to black. As Gillispie climbed he delayed the sun’s apparent setting for a few more minutes. Soon the last of the red and gold faded from the cloud tops below.

  A very high cirrus layer stayed yellow and red for the longest time as Marcus circled the carrier at 30,000 feet. Two F/A-18 Hornets came swimming up from the deepening gloom to join on him.

  “You guys all set?” Marcus asked his three crewmen.

  His crewmen counted off in order.

  The Prowler was the electronic-warfare version of the old A-6 Intruder airframe. While the Prowler bore a superficial resemblance to its older brother, the electronic suite in the aircraft could not have been more different: the Prowler was designed to fight the electronic battle in today’s skies, not drop bombs.

  The airframe was also longer than the old A-6, lengthened to accommodate four people and a massive array of computerized cockpit displays. The people sat in ejection seats, two in the front, two in the back. Only one of the crewmen was a pilot, who sat in the left front seat: the other three were electronic-warfare specialists. And they were not all men. One of the guys in back tonight was a woman, a lieutenant (junior grade) on her first cruise.