by Cuba (lit)
Now the officer standing on the tank put his hands on his
hipsRita 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 roofea"...Jake Grafton told
Rita Moravia.
"Okay, I got this guyea"...Sailor Karnow told
Stiff Hardwick. "He's bogey one."
The symbol was right there in front of Stiff on the
headsup display.
"About thirty miles or soea"...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 genderneutral navy to which they both
belonged. A few off-thecuff remarks like that to the
boys could torpedo a promising career.
"Lock the son of a bitch upea"...Stiff told his
RIO.
"You can't shoot this dudeea"...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 MiGo's ass.
"Don't just sit there with your thumb up your heinie,
honey. Get on the goddamn horn."
"Battlestar Strikeea"...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 thfc 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 roofea"...Toad
said.
"Lead onea"...Jake told him.
"Uh, Showtime One Oh Two, negative on the
permission to shoot. That's negatory, weapons red,
over."
"Strike, goddamn itea"...Stiff Hardwick roared,
"We're sitting right on the tail of a goddamn
MiGo 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
MiGo-29's 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 MiGo is posing right here in
front of me, begging for it. Do I zap it
or what?"
"We are still checking with the air forceea"...Battlestar
told Stiff, "trying to find out exactly where
everyone is. Don't want any accidents out there,
do we?"
Stiff keyed the intercom. "Assholesea"...he roared
at Sailor Karnow. "They are all stupid
fucking assholes."
"I hear thatea"...sd 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.
"Hurryea"...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.
"Th
is is Ocho Sedanoea"...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 officersea"...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 thereea"...he told Jake.
"Colonel Santana arrived an hour ago. He
was with the commandante until just a few minutes ago."
"Hurryea"...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
hi 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 lieutenantan O-3and the
decisions in Strike were being made by an officer with the
rank
of commanderO-5or even captainO-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 turnea"...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 cellea"...Carmellini told Jake.
"Use C-4. Blow itea"...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,
Hectorea"...he said. "Please forgive me."
Jake Grafton dragged them apart. "There is no
timeea"...he shouted, and pushed them toward the corridor.
The sounds of the mob tearing at the steel bars
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
vendettasea"...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
im-
posing 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?"
"Si!"
they roared.
"Do you believe in Cuba?""..."...SiThat
"Will you fight for Cuba?"
"Si!"
"Will you follow me and put Hector Sedano in the
presidential palace?"
"Si! Si! Si!"
The crowd breathed the word over and over and swarmed around
Ocho.
"Comeea"...sd 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<
br />
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 4he 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 darknessthere was just enough
light to see the outline of the corridorwalking,
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 corner, 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.
