by Cuba (lit)
into the room, "but the copilot was holding a radio
mike hi his hand. I think it's time we bid Cuba
a fond farewell."
"Let's goea"...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
hi, one after each boat.
"MiGo-19'sea"...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 hi trail behind him.
"Turn west, into the sunea"...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
MiGo'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 MiGo 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 timehe 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
disstraight 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.
Clbser 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 MiGo
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 himea"...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 hi the water had a broken arm,
the other two were dead. A cannon shell
had hit one of the men hi the torso.
Chance and Carmellini managed to get the injured man
aboard.
"The bodies tooea"...Fitzgerald demanded.
"They're my men."
"What about the Cuban pilot"..."...Carmellini asked
Fitzgerald.
"He's probably deadea"...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, wideeyed young
men in camouflage clothing and helmets, armed to the
teem. Someone hi 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
MRE'S, and some were gathered around a
headquarters tent near the hurricaneproof
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, Admiralea"...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
personnelea"...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
ashoreea"...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 diddlysquat. 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 deadea"...Lieutenant
Colonel Eckhardt speculated.
"God only knows. Just keep your people alert and
ready. Three more days. Just three more."
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 Ochowho never stopped pumpingbut 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 bums 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.
Ou. 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 notea"...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.
"Ochoff"...Dora stood mere on deck, calling
to him.
"You must swimea"...Ocho said. "The boat is
smking."...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 hi 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.
"Swimea"...the old man toldjOcho. "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-r-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 swellsjust how many Ocho
couldn't tell.
He ceased swimming. There was no place to go, no
reason to expend the energy.
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 rill 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 Sefiora de Coldn
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 hopeea"...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
Sedanoea"...General Totten muttered. "I seem
to recall a CIA summary that says Hector
