Ocho accepted that because he knew it was true. That tape would destroy Alejo Vargas.
“Make them show it on television,” Ocho had shouted. “We will get Hector out of prison.” He grinned broadly, showing all his teeth. The future was arriving all at once.
She watched the helicopter disappear into the night sky, then turned and walked into the television station.
One of the most horrifying threats any soldier can face is being in the bull’s-eye of a modern guided weapon. The stealth fighters were out tonight, dropping their weapons with extraordinary precision. The bombs came in too fast for the human eye to follow, especially in the light conditions prevailing in Havana this night. For the Cuban troops surrounding the old prison, it was as if a giant invisible sharpshooter were somewhere in the clouds hurling bombs.
The two bombs on the antiaircraft guns frightened the soldiers and made the crowd nervous. Watching from the Osprey, Jake Grafton thought for a moment the crowd might stampede: with this many people jamming the streets that would be a human disaster. Still, he could not take the risk the guns or tanks would open fire on the inbound helicopter or the Osprey, both of which he wanted to land on the prison’s roof.
Through the infrared viewer Jake could see the soldiers instinctively moving away from the tanks. He could see men getting out of the hatch, jumping to the ground, walking away.
On the street the crowd was also pushing back, crowding away from the old fortress.
Minutes passed and nothing happened. The packed rows of humanity on the street seemed to relax, to thin as the people instinctively sought their own space.
Jake heard the first bomb tone come on. An officer—Jake assumed he was an officer—climbed up on one of the tanks, waved his arms at his men.
The bomb tone ceased: the weapon was in the air.
Now the officer standing on the tank put his hands on his hips—Rita had the Osprey down to a thousand feet, only a mile from the building, set up to begin her transition to helicopter flight, so the activity in the prison courtyard was as clear to Jake as if he had been watching it on television.
“Angel One, this is Battlestar One. Come on in.”
“Roger that, Battlestar.”
The Cuban officer was still standing on the tank when it disappeared in a flash as the bomb hit it.
When the cloud of smoke and debris cleared, no one was moving within a hundred feet of the blasted tank, of which only tiny pieces remained. The bomb must have penetrated the armor in front of or behind the turret, Jake thought.
Now the second bomb tone ended. Cuban troops were running out of the prison complex through the main gate, which Jake belatedly realized was open. The men were dropping their weapons, throwing away their helmets and running as fast as their legs could carry them.
The five-hundred-pound bomb from Night Owl Four Four exploded in the gate and the running men disappeared in a flash.
“Put it on the roof,” Jake Grafton told Rita Moravia.
“Okay, I got this guy,” Sailor Karnow told Stiff Hardwick. “He’s bogey one.”
The symbol was right there in front of Stiff on the heads-up display.
“About thirty miles or so,” Sailor said matter-of-factly. She would sound bored if they were giving her an Academy Award. That was another thing about her Stiff didn’t like. Well, the truth was, he hated her guts, but he knew better than to say so in the new modern politically correct gender-neutral navy to which they both belonged. A few off-the-cuff remarks like that to the boys could torpedo a promising career.
“Lock the son of a bitch up,” Stiff told his RIO.
“You can’t shoot this dude,” Sailor said, still bored as hell. “There are four stealth fighters flapping around down there, three Ospreys and a helicopter, or did you sleep through the brief? You can’t shoot without the blessing of Battlestar Strike, which you ain’t likely to get.”
Twenty-five miles now. Stiff had the F-14 coming down like a lawyer on his way to hell, showing Mach 1.7 on the meter. He was fast crawling up this MiG’s ass.
“Don’t just sit there with your thumb up your heinie, honey. Get on the goddamn horn.”
“Battlestar Strike,” Sailor drawled on the radio. “This is Showtime One Oh Two. We got us a situation developing out here.”
Rita didn’t use her landing light until the last possible moment, snapping it on just in time to judge the final few seconds of her approach. As it was, only one of the demoralized snipers on the roof took a shot at the plane, a wild, unaimed shot that punched a hole in the fuselage near the port gear and spent itself against a structural member. Then the marines charging out of the back of the beast fired a shot over his head and the sniper threw down his rifle. The other snipers had already done so.
In seconds the chopper from United States came out of the darkness and set down alongside the V-22. Tommy Carmellini and Ocho Sedano came scrambling out.
All this was new to Ocho. With wide eyes he looked at the Osprey, at the marines, at the skyline of Havana, at the bonfires in the street and the tens of thousands of people.
Toad Tarkington appeared at Jake’s elbow. “I think I know how to get off this roof,” Toad said.
“Lead on,” Jake told him.
“Uh, Showtime One Oh Two, negative on the permission to shoot. That’s negatory, weapons red, over.”
“Strike, goddamn it,” Stiff Hardwick roared, “We’re sitting right on the tail of a goddamn MiG on his way to Havana to kill some of our people. I got the son of a bitch boresighted.”
“Showtime, there are too many friendlies over Havana. Weapons red, weapons red, over.”
“How about I pop this guy with my gun? Request weapons free for a gunshot. Over.”
“Wait.”
Stiff was off the power, idling along at about 400 knots, five miles behind the bogey. Of course, the bogey didn’t know he was there. The Cuban MiG-29s had very primitive electronic detection equipment, which consisted of a light and an auditory signal in the pilot’s ear. These devices told Carlos Corrado he was being looked at by an American fighter radar but failed to tell him where or how close the thing was, the two pieces of information that he needed the most.
As he closed on Havana and listened to the tone and watched the light, which didn’t even flicker, Carlos Corrado pondered on the irony of knowing American fighters were out there somewhere and not being able to do anything about it. If he turned on his radar, he would beacon to the Americans, who would then come at him like moths to a flame. His only chance was to keep the radar off.
If the Americans launched a weapon at him, he had a few flares he could punch off, of course, and some chaff. It was not much, but it might be enough. If it wasn’t, well, he had had a good life.
Carlos began looking right and left as he crossed the suburbs of the city. Amid all the lights he spotted some fires, and the center of the city was dark, without power, but all in all, Havana looked pretty normal. Amazing, that!
“Battlestar Strike, this is Showtime. Still waiting on that permission. This MiG is posing right here in front of me, begging for it. Do I zap it or what?”
“We are still checking with the air force,” Battlestar told Stiff, “trying to find out exactly where everyone is. Don’t want any accidents out there, do we?”
Stiff keyed the intercom. “Assholes,” he roared at Sailor Karnow. “They are all stupid fucking assholes.”
“I hear that,” said Sailor, sighing. “I’ve known it for years. I should have joined the WNBA.”
Toad Tarkington led the procession along the dark corridor of La Cabana prison. Apparently the power had not yet been restored after the high-voltage towers fell. Everyone following Toad had a flashlight.
The corridors were alive with echoing sound, shouts, curses, doors clanging, screams, shots.
“Hurry,” Grafton shouted, and ran toward the shouts.
As he suspected, the mob was in the building. As he and Toad rounded a corner, their flashlights fell
on a solid wall of humanity dragging two uniformed officers. Carmellini shouted. The human wall halted.
“This is Ocho Sedano,” Carmellini shouted, “Hector’s brother. He is here to free Hector.”
The man dragging a fat officer by the collar of his uniform demanded, “Who are you?” Obviously drunk, this man had the commandante’s pistol in his hand, but he didn’t raise it or point it. The flashlights were partially blinding him, but he could still see the front end of Toad’s M-16.
“We are here at El Ocho’s request.” Carmellini proclaimed loudly. “He has asked for our help to free his brother Hector.”
The mob moved forward, probably in response to a surging push from the people behind.
“Give us the officers,” Jake said to Carmellini, “and we will bring Hector from his cell.” Carmellini shouted the message in Spanish.
The members of the mob didn’t like it, but they were facing six rifles in a narrow stone corridor. The people at the head of the mob released the officers and turned to shout at those behind them.
The marines grabbed the two officers and pushed them away along the corridor.
Carmellini talked earnestly to the officers. “They will lead us there,” he told Jake. “Colonel Santana arrived an hour ago. He was with the commandante until just a few minutes ago.”
“Hurry,” Jake Grafton urged. “The mob is out of control.” He had drawn the .357 Magnum he wore in a holster around his waist and now had it in his right hand.
“Showtime One Oh Two, Strike, the air force is having trouble confirming the location of all their machines.”
“Strike, this guy is hanging it out, begging for it, trolling right over the damn city looking for some white hats to zap. Are you gonna cry at the funeral after he kills some of our people?”
This comment was of course grossly out of line: Stiff Hardwick was a mere lieutenant—an O-3—and the decisions in Strike were being made by an officer with the rank of commander—O-5—or even captain—O-6. He was going to be in big trouble when he got back to the ship, but he didn’t care. The primary object of war was to kill the enemy, and by God, the son of a bitch was right there. He’d deal with the peckerheads later.
Another minute passed. They were over the heart of Havana now. The oily black slash of Havana Harbor was quite prominent, as were the dozens of fires that now surrounded the walls of the old La Cabana fortress.
“This guy is starting a turn,” Sailor told Stiff, referring of course to the bogey.
Carlos Corrado should have been searching the night sky over Havana for the planes he knew were here, but he wasn’t. He was only human. He was looking at the red warning light and listening to the buzz that told him that a hostile fighter’s radar was illuminating his aircraft.
The light and tone had been on for five minutes now. The miracle was that Carlos Corrado was still alive. Five minutes in front of an aggressive American fighter pilot was about six lifetimes … and still the American hadn’t pulled the trigger!
Carlos didn’t know why, but he suspected the reason had something to do with the fact they were tooling over the rooftops of Havana.
Ocho Sedano and the Americans ran through the corridors of La Cabana Prison until they came to a massive steel gate. It was closed but unlocked; they used the commandante’s keys to lock it behind them. Then they entered a cellblock full of men screaming to be freed. Hundreds of arms reached through the bars, trying to reach the Americans.
The guards led them to Hector, who was in a cell in a corridor off the main cellblock. “They have no key to the cell,” Carmellini told Jake.
“Use C-4. Blow it,” the admiral said.
Hector reached through the bars and got his hands on Ocho. They hugged while Jake Grafton held the flashlight and Tommy Carmellini set the explosive.
“Have you seen Santana?” Carmellini asked Hector.
“Yes. He was here.”
“Where is he now?”
“He heard you coming and ran.”
When the plastic explosive blew the lock apart on Hector’s cell, Ocho jerked the door open and hugged him fiercely. “I apologize, Hector,” he said. “Please forgive me.”
Jake Grafton dragged them apart. “There is no time,” he shouted, and pushed them toward the corridor.
The sounds of the mob tearing at the steel bars that barred the way into the cell block could be heard above the shouts of the men in the cells.
Toad led his party the other way. Another door, precious seconds wasted while the officers fumbled for a key, then they were through and going up a stairway. More stairs, then along a long, dark corridor lit only by flashlights.
As they rounded a turn someone ahead fired a shot at them. The bullet spanged off a wall, and miraculously failed to connect with human flesh.
Suddenly sure, Tommy Carmellini told Jake, “It’s Santana. You go on. I’ll get the bastard.”
“We don’t have time for personal vendettas,” Jake Grafton snapped.
“I’m a civilian, Grafton. I can take care of myself. Go on!”
Jake led his party onward.
When they came out onto the roof the Osprey’s position lights and flashing anticollision light revealed a crowd of at least three hundred people. They completely surrounded the Osprey and helo and the marines with rifles who held them off. The pilots must have shut down the engines due to the large number of people nearby. Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt walked back and forth behind the marines, an imposing martial figure if ever there was one. Fortunately no one in the crowd seemed to be armed.
Jake and Toad forced their way through the crowd.
It was Ocho who stepped in front of the crowd and began to speak. “This is my brother Hector, the next president of Cuba.”
The crowd cheered lustily.
“I am El Ocho. I wish to know if you love Cuba?”
“Sí!” they roared.
“Do you believe in Cuba?”
“Sí!”
“Will you fight for Cuba?”
“Sí!”
“Will you follow me and put Hector Sedano in the presidential palace?”
“Sí! Sí! Sí!” The crowd breathed the word over and over and swarmed around Ocho.
“Come,” said Jake Grafton, and pulled Hector toward the Osprey.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As Jake Grafton and the others climbed the stairs toward the roof of La Cabana Prison, Tommy Carmellini doused his flashlight and held it in his left hand. He stood in the darkness waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.
He had a pistol that the marines aboard ship had given him, a 9-mm, that felt cold and comforting in his grip. He closed his eyes, listened to the cheers and shouts from the roof, waited until he heard the chopper and Osprey get airborne.
Finally the corridors of the old fortress grew quiet.
Santana was in here someplace.
Jake Grafton had his thing and he was hard at it. William Henry Chance had his thing, trying to control biological and chemical weapons in Third World countries, and he had died doing it. Tommy Carmellini’s thing was cracking safes. Sure, he was doing it for the CIA now instead of stealing diamonds from rich matrons, but somehow that wasn’t enough. There comes a time in a man’s life when he begins to tally up the score. When Carmellini realized Grafton wasn’t going to take the time to step on the cockroach Santana, he knew he had to.
He stepped forward now, walking the way Hector had indicated that Santana had gone.
Taking his time in the near-total darkness—there was just enough light to see the outline of the corridor—walk—ing, listening, walking, listening again, Tommy Carmellini moved to the end of the corridor and stopped.
He could hear metal on metal, as if someone was trying to open a lock. The sound came from the corridor on the right.
Tommy Carmellini bent as low as he could get, eased his head around the corner.
Yes, the sound was clearer now.
Ever so slowly he edged around the c
orner, crossed the corridor to the other side, began moving forward into the blackness, toward the sound.
The noise stopped.
Carmellini froze. Closed his eyes to concentrate on the sound.
The pistol was heavy in his hand.
The sound began again.
Forward, ever so stealthily, moving like a glacier, just flowing slowly, silently, effortlessly … .
The man was just ahead. Working on a lock. Probably on one of those steel gates.
Again the sound stopped.
Carmellini froze, not trusting himself to breathe.
The other man was here, he could feel him. But where?
Time seemed to stop. Tommy Carmellini held his breath, stood crouched but frozen, knowing that the slightest sound would give away his position.
Santana was …
Suddenly Carmellini knew. He was right …
There! He pointed the pistol and pulled the trigger.
The muzzle flash strobed the darkness, and revealed Santana swinging the butt of his rifle, swinging it at Carmellini’s head.
He tried to duck but the rifle struck his shoulder and sent him sprawling. He held on to the pistol, triggered two more shots, which came like giant thunderclaps, deafening him with their roar.
The flashlight was gone, lost when he fell. His left shoulder was on fire where the rifle butt struck him, his arm numb. He could hear Santana running, shuffling along, the sound fading.
He felt for the flashlight with his right hand, couldn’t find it, paused and listened and searched some more. There! He picked it up without releasing the pistol. Now he put the pistol between his legs, tried to work the flashlight with his right hand. It was broken. He set it on the floor out of the way.
He listened, heard the faintest of sounds, then nothing.
Tommy Carmellini slowly got to his feet and began moving back the way he had come, after Santana.
“Showtime One Oh Two, Battlestar Strike. You are cleared to engage the bogey with a gun. Weapons free gun only, acknowledge.”
“Weapons free gun only, aye,” sung out Stiff Hardwick, and jammed his throttles forward to the mechanical stop. The engines wound up quickly; Stiff eased the throttles to the left, stroked the afterburners. The big fighter leaped forward and began closing the five-mile gap between the two planes.
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