by Cuba (lit)
objective is the lab and the cultures: that's more
than enough to keep us busy. You've been there before and know
the layout. Will you go back with us tonight?"
Tommy Carmellini nodded slowly. "I
appreciate your asking, Admiral. I'd be
delighted."
"We are planning a military assault. It is
going to be a holy mess, I think. Vargas will
probably ambush us on the way in or
booby-trap the lab to blow up"...af we've fought our
way in there. Maybe both."
"He's that kind of guyea"...Carmellini agreed.
"Hector Sedano's brother is aboard ship.
He was-picked up floating in the ocean north of
Cuba two days ago after the boat he was on
sank. Everyone else aboard drowned or was a
victim of shark attack. This kid is either
Hector's brother or a liar of Clintonian
dimensions. They call him El Ocho. I want you
to talk to him, feel him out. He impressed me as
an extremely competent, capable young man. Talk
to him, then come back and tell me what you think."
STEPHEN COONTS
Toad Tarkington was in the Air Intelligence
Center studying satellite images and radar
images from an E-3 Sentry AW ACS
plane flying a race track pattern over the
Florida Straits. The University of Havana
science building was at the center of all the images.
"What's happening in Havana"..."...Jake asked.
"The streets are full of peopleea"...Toad said.
"Especially around La Cabana Prison. Do you
think they are there to break Hector out?"
"They're there because he isea"...Jake muttered, and used
a magnifying glass to study the infrared images
of the science building.
Toad pointed at the picture with the tip of a pen.
'Tankea"...he said. "Vargas is going to be waiting
with his guns loaded."
"Is he taking cultures out of the building? Do
any of the specialists in Maryland have any opinions
on that?"
"No one has seen any milk trucks. He'd be
a fool to haul that stuff through Havana in a
regular truck."
"Desperate men do foolish thingsea"...Jake
Grafton said, and laid the magnifying glass
back on the table.
As the sun was setting, Jake received a call from the
White House. "I just watched that tape of
Fidelea"...the president said over the encrypted
circuit.
"It's impressive. We are going to deliver it
to the woman who gave it to us, see if she can get it
on television tonight."
"Maybe that will pan outea"...the president said. "The
American Interest Section in Havana says that
the crowd outside the prison is restless. Local
police are nowhere in sight."
A wave of relief swept over Jake
Grafton. "That's the best news I've heard
today, sir."
"I'm really worried about those viruses."
"Sir, we'll do what we can."
"Just what are you going to do, Admiral?"
"Improvise as I go along. Do you really want
to know?""...I guess notea"...the president said heavily.
Alejo Vargas was in the office area across the
hallway from the lab in the University of Havana
science building when General Alba came in with
old General Rafael Zerquera, the titular head
of the Cuban armed forces, the chief of staff. The
old man was at least eighty-five,
probably a bit moreea'and he walked with a cane.
With the two military men were several ministers,
including Ferrara and the mayor of Havana. Behind them
were six young officers, all wearing sidearms.
"Sefior Presidents,"
General Zerquera began, and looked around the room
for a chair. He found one and his aide helped him
to it, though Vargas had not invited anyone to sit.
The general looked around slowly, taking everything in.
Through the window one could see the air lock across the
hallway that led to the sealed laboratory.
"I called your office, called the Ministry of
Interior they could not tell me where you were. The army
knew, however."
Vargas said nothing.
"I saw a missile launched last nighteveryone in
central Cuba saw or heard it."...The old man
shook his head, remembering. "Weapons to destroy
cities, kill millionsFidel knew that if the
Yanquis ever found out about the missiles, they would
seek to destroy them. He was right. And he knew that
if the missiles were ever used on the United
States ..."
Zerquera cocked his head, looked at Vargas.
"So you launched at least one, and it never
reached its target."
"What's done is doneea"...Vargas snapped. "How
do you know the missile did not reach its target?"
"Because we are still aliveea"...Zerquera said. "If you
think the Yanquis will not retaliate, you are a
dangerous fool."
Vargas had to restrain himself. Zerquera had many
STEPHEN COONTS
friends; it would be impossible to stop tongues from wagging
if he were shot here, in front of these junior
officers.
"And then there is this labea"...Zerquera continued blandly,
gesturing at the window glass and the laboratory beyond.
"Here you grow the poison to murder Cuba. If you
use this on the Americans, they will retaliate.
If it escapes, Cubans will die horribly."
Vargas took a deep breath before he answered.
"We are moving the cultures."
"Moving them where?"
"To a place where they will be safe."
"Excuse me,
Senor Presidente,
for my failure to understand. What other place in
Cuba has the sealed ventilation system and
biological alarms and other safeguards
that exist here?"
'There are none."
"So there is no place safer than this building."
"Tonight the Americans will probably attack this
building in order to destroy the cultures. They
burned several facilities last night that contained
cultures, and they will probably burn this one. I
am not a prophet, yet I make that prediction
with a great degree of confidence."
"The president of the United States can destroy this
building and everything it contains with a telephone
callea"...General Zerquera said softly, "and there is
nothing on earth we can do about it. In my opinion the
viruses should be destroyed, if it can be safely
done. An escape of the polio viruses from whatever
containers they are in will kill vast numbers of our people
unless the containers are housed in a specially prepared
place, like this laboratory."
Vargas looked exasperated. "You exceed your
authority, General, when you"
Zerquera stopped him with a hand. "No, no, no!
You
exceed
your
authority when you endanger the Cuban people in
order to gratify your ambition."
&nb
sp; "Do not cross me, old manea"...Vargas snarled.
"I am not going to interfere in politics, Alejo.
I never
have. The Cuban people will decide who they want to lead
themneither you nor the exiles nor Fidel nor the
president of the United States can dictate who the
Cuban people will choose. For forty years they wanted
Fidel, a loquacious eccentric with much personal
charm and too little wisdom, in my opinion. Yet a
new day has come."
Vargas gestured angrily. "These others have brought
you here with lies about me."
General Rafael Zerquera got to his feet.
He leaned on his cane, examined every face, and ended
with his eyes on Vargas. "A nation matures much like
a man does. Youth makes mistakes: with-age and
experience comes wisdom."
"You waste our timeea"...Vargas said through his teeth.
"You will not remove the cultures from this building. The
risk to the population is too great."
Vargas stepped forward to slap the old fool, but one
of the aides stopped him with the barrel of a pistol
pointed right at his face.
"Another step,
Senor Presidente,"
the young man said, "and you are dead."
Zerquera turned and headed for the door. He went through
it, then took the elevator up to street level.
The civilians followed him. Alba and the young
officers stayed.
"You, Alba? You have betrayed me?"
"I obey my conscienceea"...Alba said, and posted his
men in front of the lab.
"Kill anyone who tries to remove anything from that
roomea"...the general told them.
As the last of the daylight faded, a helicopter from
USS
United States
crossed the southern shore of the island of Cuba flying
northwest. The helicopter stayed low, just above the
treetops. In the cockpit both the pilot and
copilot were wearing night-vision goggles. Behind them
in the bay sat Tommy Carmellini and Ocho
Sedano. A .50-caliber machine gun was mounted
in the open door. The gunner wearing night-vision
goggles sat on the jump seat, looking out.
Overhead EA-6But Prowlers and FirstA-18
Hornets with their HARM missiles ready crossed
the coast at the same time. These
airplanes were there to attack any Cuban radars
that came on the air tonight. So far, all was quiet.
Above the Prowlers and Hornets, F-14
Tomcats patrolled back and forth.
One of the F-14 pilots was Stiff Hardwick.
He and his RIO had ejected last night almost on
top of silo one, so they had ridden home in an
Osprey. The RIO, Boots VonRauenzahn,
sustained a fracture to the left arm; he was
sporting a cast tonight and couldn't fly. The junior
RIO in the squadron, Sailor Karnow, drew
the short straw and was sitting behind Stiff tonight.
Stiff had had a hell of a bad day. First the
shoot-down by a Cuban fighter pilot, then he
endured a day of razzing from his peers, all of whom
had a great laugh at his tale of woe, then tonight he
had to fly with Sailor, a quiet woman who never
had much to say around the testosterone-charged ready
room.
*
On the way out to the plane this evening, Boots had
put his good arm around the shoulders of his pal, Stiff.
"Sailor will take good care of you. Don't fret
the program, shipmate."
Stiff snarled something crude in reply and
stomped off.
He was the sole victim of the entire Cuban Air
Force fighter pilots generally ignored
helicopters, so the Osprey and choppers destroyed
by the MiGo pilot didn't register on Stiff's
radar screen. He was never, ever going to be able
to live down the ignominy of last night. His
squadron mates would probably tattoo a
ribald memorial of his disgrace on his ass some
night when he was drunk or chisel it on his
tombstone. His skipper had almost put somebody
else in his place on the flight schedule tnStiff
begged shamelessly: "You gotta let me flyea"...he
sobbed, "give me a chance to redeem myself."
"You aren't going to do anything stupid out there, are
you"..."...the skipper asked, his voice tinged with
suspicion.
"Oh, no, sirea"...Stiff assured the man.
So here he was, off to slay the dragon if he
came out of his lair. And that goddamn Cuban
fighter jock was probably still swilling free beer
on the tale of the damned Yanqui who pulled up in
front of him and lit his afterburners.
Actually Carlos Corrado hadn't thought much about
his aerial victory. He awoke in the
early afternoon with a blinding headache and treated himself
to his usual hangover regimena cup of coffee,
a cigar, and a puke.
He felt a little better this evenin'g but thought he should
forgo food. He would eat after he flew, he
decided.
The powers that be didn't call the base today, of
course, because the telephone system was hors"...de
combat. Alas, a desk-flying colonel drove
down from Havana.
"Please stay on the ground, Corrado. I would
make that an order, but knowing you, you would disobey it.
So I ask you, please do not fly tonight. Please do
not allow yourself to be shot down. Please do not shame
us."
Carlos Corrado told the colonel where he could
go and what he could do to himself when he got there.
Tonight he sat on the concrete leaning up against a
nose tire of his steed, which was parked between two gutted
hangars. The troops had worked all day getting the
MiGo-
29 fueled, serviced, and armed. It was ready. Now
all Corrado needed to know was where the Americans were
and what they were up to. Of course there was no one
to tell him.
The walls of the hangars were still standing and magnified the
sounds of the sky. As he chewed on his cigar butt,
Corrado could hear jets running high. The growl
was deep and faint.
The planes were American, certainly, and they had
fangs. If he went heedlessly blasting into the sky,
his life was going to come to an abrupt, violent end.
Where were they going?
Havana? He thought they would go there last night and
they never got near the place.
Of course, the headquarters colonel knew nothing.
At least, he had nothing to say. Except that
Corrado was a fool. Only a fool would
attack the American war machine head-on, he
said.
Corrado got out a match and lit the butt. He
puffed, coughed, chewed on the soggy mess.
Well, hell, we're all fools, really.
Does any of this matter? And if so, to whom?
Rita Moravia settled the V-22 onto the
flight deck of the
United States
and watched as Jake Grafton came trotting out from
the island. Toad and a d
ozen marines carrying
aircraft flares followed him. The
marines had their rifles slung over their shoulders and
wore their Kevlar Helmets. Under the red lights
shining down from the ship's island superstructure, the
shadowy procession looked like something, from a dream, a
vision without substance.
She felt the substance as the men trooped up the
ramp in the back of the plane and the vibrations reached
her through the fuselage. Soon Jake Grafton was
looking over her shoulder.
"Toad says you're okay. Now tell me the
truth."
"I'm okay, Admiral."...She turned and flashed
him a grin. The disbruise on her forehead was yellow
and blue now.
"Whenever you're readyea"...Jake said, and strapped himself
into the crew chief's seat.
It was a rare summer night, with a clean, clear
sky, visibility exceeding twenty miles. A
series of rain showers had swept the Florida
Straits earlier in the evening, cleaning out the haze and
crud.
Major Jack O'Brian sat in the cockpit of
his F-117 looking at the cities below as he
flew down the west coast of Florida, out to sea a
little so as to avoid airplanes on the
airway. O'Brian had one radio tuned to his
squadron's tactical frequency, which he was
merely monitoring in case the mission was scrubbed
at the last minute, and on the other he listened
to Miami Center. He wasn't talking to the air
traffic controller either. His transponder was off.
He was cruising at 36,500 feet, 500 feet
above the flight level, so he should miss any
airliner that he failed to see. Of course, an
airliner going under him would not see him because his plane
was midnight black and the exterior position lights
were off.
The stealth fighter was also invisible to the controller at
Miami Center, who had his radar configured to received
coded replies from transponders. Even if the
controller chose to look at actual radar
returns, the skin paints, he would not have seen the
F-117, which had been designed to be invisible
to radars at long distances.
This feature also hid the stealth fighter from the
American early-warning radars that were sweeping these
skies looking for outlaw aircraft that might be
aloft in the night, such as drug smugglers. And in just
a few minutes it would
hide it from Cuban radars probing the sky
over the Florida Straits. If there were any.
Completely unseen, a black ghost flitting through the
