Coonts, Stephen - Jake Grafton 7 - Cuba

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.
r />   He was so tired, so exhausted. He closed his

  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