Ghosts of Havana

by Todd Moss

  “I should kill you right now,” she hissed.

  “No,” he moaned. “I didn’t know we were on the same side.”

  “Never say that!” she barked, and kicked him again in the kidneys. “I don’t care who you think you work for. We are never on the same side.” She got into her car, slammed the door, and revved up the engine.

  As she pulled out, Ricky sat up, coughing and spitting blood into his palms. The Mustang suddenly jolted to a halt and the door swung open.

  Jessica stepped out, marched over to Ricky, and stood over him. He looked up at her and raised his bloody palms. She snap-kicked him just under the jawbone, sending him sprawling flat on his back in the gravel parking lot.

  “I’m Alpha.”

  70.

  GEORGE WASHINGTON MEMORIAL PARKWAY, McLEAN, VIRGINIA

  FRIDAY, 9:48 P.M.

  When the black Audi A6 veered off the parkway and into the scenic overlook, the white Cadillac Escalade was already there.

  “She’s early,” the Deputy Director of the CIA said aloud. He pulled into the space next to Adelman-Zamora’s SUV and cut the engine. He removed the batteries from each of his three cell phones and shoved them in the glove compartment of his wife’s car. Then he exited the Audi, checked that no one was watching, and opened the Escalade’s passenger door.

  “What the hell’s going on?” she chirped before he had climbed in.

  “Madam Chairwoman—”

  “If you don’t stop calling me madam, I’m going to throw you into the fucking Potomac,” Brenda hissed. “Where are we with our goddamn operation?”

  “My operation,” he said slowly, “is proceeding. It’s all going according to plan. We are moving into the final phase now.”

  “What kind of tradecraft bullshit is that? Why don’t you tell me again in English.”

  “OPSEC.”

  “What?” She scowled.

  “Operations security. We agreed that I shield you from the details and just give you the big picture. That’s what I’m doing. It’s for the safety of the operation. And just in case something goes wrong.”

  “What’s going wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he said.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said. “Those four soccer dads? They have to be yours, right?”

  He looked at her, giving nothing away.

  “Don’t give me that blank-stare spook crap,” she scoffed. “I’ve been around long enough to know their capture can’t be a coincidence. They have to be yours. And if one of your teams is sitting in a Cuban jail, then something went god-awful wrong.”

  The Deputy Director blinked. “Yes they’re mine, some of them. But, no, nothing went wrong. I told you, it’s all going according to plan.”

  “You sent a team into Cuba to be captured on purpose?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Who would possibly agree to such a high-risk kamikaze operation?”

  He continued to stare coldly.

  —

  The look of confusion on her face slowly melted away. “You evil fucking genius,” she whispered. “You played on their emotions. You knew that they’d want redemption for their grandfathers. You duped them into a failed invasion to create an international incident.”

  He blinked.

  “Don’t tell me you promised them”—she swallowed hard—“air cover.”

  He shook his head. “They knew the risks. They just didn’t know the bigger picture.”

  “So, now what?” she asked, bouncing in her seat. “You have to tell me what’s next. I have to know!”

  “We’re moving into the final phase.”

  “That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “I’ve got multiple people in the air as we speak. It’s all converging. Everything is a go. That’s all I’m going to tell you. Anything more might compromise the operation.”

  She exhaled loudly.

  “You do your part and I’ll do mine,” he said. “That’s how we achieve mission success. That’s how we finally make history.”

  Brenda Adelman-Zamora knew that the Deputy Director was right, but she pouted anyway. “At least tell me how long I have to wait. When can I expect good news?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Her eyes brightened and she licked her lips. “We’re that close?”

  He nodded, suppressing a smug grin that was like a baby bird trying to break out of its egg.

  “Is our candidate on his way already? I mean, he’s in the air and coming home?”

  “I shouldn’t say,” he whispered as he flashed her a wink.

  “Do you promise . . . tomorrow?”

  “There are no promises in covert operations. You know that already. But confidence is high.”

  “Good.” She spun her wedding ring on her finger. “I want you to update me as soon as you have some news.”

  He nodded.

  “You’re going to make a brilliant CIA Director. Think of everything we will do together.”

  He nodded again.

  “Who knows? Maybe you’ll go higher. Like the next Director of National Intelligence. How would you like that?”

  “One step at a time.”

  “I can’t believe it’s finally happening,” she said, reaching down and squeezing his inner thigh. “After all these years, it’s finally happening.” She leaned in to kiss him.

  The Deputy Director turned his head and removed her hand from his thigh.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking away. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Don’t apologize, Brenda. It happens when an operation reaches its climax. People get excited.”

  “I’m not regular people,” she insisted.

  “Everyone responds differently under stress,” he said.

  “I still shouldn’t have done that.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” he said. “Not here.”

  71.

  HOMESTEAD AIR RESERVE BASE, FLORIDA

  FRIDAY, 9:56 P.M.

  She’d never seen anything like it before.

  “Here she is,” said the young man proudly. “The latest Sikorsky S-97 Raider.”

  Jessica eyed the helicopter, a shiny black beast with a narrow nose like a shark. She, too, in a skintight black flight suit with black combat boots, looked like an animal ready to attack.

  “Actually,” he whispered, “this baby is the S-97 Raider X2. Experimental prototype.”

  “I’ve flown Black Hawks, Apaches, and Little Birds. Even an old Huey.” Jessica tried to hide her childish excitement. “But I’ve never seen her. What’s with the double rotors?” she asked, pointing to the two sets of rotor blades stacked on top of the fuselage.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the Air Force lieutenant, who Jessica thought had barely started shaving. “The main rotors spin in opposite directions, which negates the need for a tail rotor. Instead, you have the propulsion propeller at the back. It gives the Raider a shitload of velocity.” The lieutenant suddenly looked embarrassed. “Pardon my French.”

  “What’s her speed?” she asked.

  “Cruising speed is 235 knots.”

  Jessica’s heart raced with anticipation.

  “That’s almost twice as fast as a conventional helicopter, ma’am.”

  “So where’s my pilot, soldier?” Jessica asked, looking around an empty airfield.

  “Tampa, ma’am.”

  “Excuse me?” she scowled.

  “We don’t have pilots here at Homestead who are cleared to fly the Raider. We’re just an Air Reserve Base. This helicopter isn’t even officially here.”

  “I need to be airborne right now!” Jessica demanded. She knew that a missing pilot would derail the whole plan.

  “Yes, ma’am. I was told you were a chopper p
ilot.”

  “That’s right. But never a bird like this one.”

  “The Raider controls are similar to the Black Hawk. This X2 version is configured for a single pilot or can be piloted remotely.”

  “Remotely?” She narrowed her eyes.

  “You’ll be flying it with a copilot at MacDill Air Force Base up in Tampa.”

  “My copilot is with SOCOM?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. Could be Special Operations Command. Could be regular Air Force. Could be . . . another part of our government. That information is way above my security clearance. I only know that your copilot is briefed at MacDill and ready to go. You’ll communicate through the headset. I’ll show you.”

  Jessica opened the door of the Raider and climbed into the pilot’s seat. It smelled like a new car.

  The lieutenant began pointing out the various cockpit controls. “The navigation and flight controls are all based on the Black Hawk layout. The pilot at MacDill will handle most of this, but here’s how you control the rotors. The pitch is here. And your secure comms are over there. And here,” he said, pointing to a bright red switch above her head, “is how she goes into stealth mode.”

  “Stealth in a helicopter?”

  “This’s the experimental part. It’s now set to normal operations mode. Push this down one click and she’ll be invisible to radar. It also scrambles the electronic communications with MacDill, so your signal can’t be picked up by the enemy.”

  “What’s the third mode?” she asked, pointing to the switch.

  “In an emergency, if you need to go totally radio silent, push it down again to here.” He snapped the switch down two clicks. “That kills all onboard external communications. The electronic footprints completely disappear to anyone on the ground, including base.”

  “She goes full black?”

  “Full black,” he said with a smile.

  “How does that work on a helicopter?”

  “Above my grade, ma’am.” He shook his head.

  Jessica put the headset on and oriented herself around the cockpit. Yes, I can do this, she thought, nodding to herself.

  The airman started to leave when she grabbed his arm. “Lieutenant, where are the controls for enabling the remote pilot?”

  “Right here, ma’am.” He tapped a box underneath the pilot’s seat, with its purple wire that ran into the floor. “When this is on,” he said, touching a flashing purple light next to the analog altimeter, “MacDill is your copilot. Just as if they were sitting right here next to you. Make sure this light stays on or you’re flying on your own.”

  Jessica nodded. “Lieutenant, I’ve got five cases in my vehicle, four in the trunk, one up front. Can you load them into the Raider while I run prestart?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he saluted and marched off.

  Once the airman was out of earshot, Jessica tapped a button on the ear of her headset. “This is Alpha Nine Nine. Can you hear me?”

  “Roger, Alpha Nine Nine. Good evening. This is Whiskey Base Seven. Are you ready for prestart checks?”

  “Affirmative, Whiskey Base Seven. Have you locked in our destination coordinates?”

  “Doing that now.”

  “What’s our flight time?”

  “One hour forty-two minutes to Gitmo, Alpha Nine Nine.”

  Perfect. “Let’s go, Whiskey.”

  72.

  SANTIAGO, CUBA

  FRIDAY, 11:31 P.M.

  The Dassault Falcon 7X landed, its wheels squeaking sharply on the airstrip as it touched down. Ernesto Sandoval’s heart raced as he felt the jolt of the land, his arrival back in Cuba. He could almost hear the crowds already: Che! Che! Che!

  The masses, unable to contain their love and admiration. Just like Pope Francis in Revolution Square.

  The plane taxied for a few minutes, Ernesto’s nose pressed against the window for his first glance of home, his first sight of his people.

  The pilot rolled the Falcon away from the main terminal and parked at the far end of the tarmac near an empty cargo hangar. The engines shut down and the door opened with a satisfying pop.

  Ernesto poked his head out of the door.

  “Welcome home, Dr. Che!” said an elderly woman surrounded by half a dozen shabbily dressed middle-aged men.

  “Where is everybody?” Ernesto asked, frowning.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Che,” the woman said, forcing a smile, “you arrived too late for a welcoming party. The cells will be activated in the morning.”

  “Cells?”

  “The crowds will come tomorrow, Dr. Che.”

  “Tomorrow?” Ernesto knew he should hide his disappointment, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “For the bread rally,” she said.

  “Bread?”

  “Our Cubita bella is running out of wheat. There is no bread. The government has failed us again.” She tisked. “Mass protests are planned for tomorrow. In the Plaza de la Revolución. That’s when the crowds will come. That’s when the people will hear you, Dr. Che. That’s when we will begin a new chapter for Cuba!”

  “I was expecting a crowd here. Tonight.”

  “Tomorrow, Dr. Che. Tomorrow is your day!”

  73.

  GUANTÁNAMO BAY NAVAL BASE, CUBA

  FRIDAY, 11:36 P.M.

  Alpha Nine Nine, prepare for final approach to Leeward Point,” said the voice in Jessica’s headset.

  “Preparing for approach, Whiskey Base Seven,” Jessica replied, seizing the cyclic control stick with one hand and the collective with the other. She spied the red lights of the airstrip dead ahead and, at its very end, the green circle of the helicopter-landing pad. Beyond the airfield, she could see the brightly illuminated fence line that separated Guantánamo Bay Naval Base from the mainland. The official border between Cuba and America.

  “I have a visual of the helipad, Whiskey,” she said. “I have the controls.”

  As the Raider crossed into official American military airspace, the copilot announced, “Negative, Alpha Nine Nine. We’ve got you. We’re putting you in a ten-foot hover.”

  “Roger that, Whiskey,” she conceded.

  The Raider slowed until it was just floating in midair over the landing pad, the engine vibrating but the helicopter motionless. Jessica reached up and pushed the red switch to activate stealth mode, scrambling communications with Tampa and, she hoped, vanishing from Cuban radar screens. The plan assumed that the Cuban military tracking incoming American flights would conclude that the helicopter had landed at the base. Nothing to see here.

  Jessica followed the next step in the plan, turning the Raider to the south and accelerating forward at low altitude. Within seconds, she was over the fence line and in Cuban airspace. Jessica was flying straight for the drop point with Charlie Three, an isolated location nestled within the hills of Baconao Park adjacent to the naval base.

  “ETA four minutes, Alpha Nine Nine,” said the voice in her headset.

  “Roger that. Four minutes, Whiskey Base Seven.”

  Unlike the bright lights of the naval base, the park was pitch-black. Jessica could barely see the ground with the naked eye, relying instead on the Raider’s night vision capabilities to fly low and fast.

  After three and a half minutes, Jessica tapped her ear again. “Approaching Charlie Three.”

  “Roger that, Alpha Nine Nine. We see you. We’re putting you back in a ten-foot hover.”

  The target was blinking on her navigation screen and the helicopter slowed to a midair halt.

  “Roger, Whiskey Base Seven,” she said. Jessica then reached up to the red stealth switch above her head and rubbed it between her fingers. She looked out the window into a total void of light. Jessica couldn’t see anything, but she knew Charlie was down there somewhere.

  “I see movement on the ground. Whiske
y Base Seven, can you confirm that’s Charlie Three?”

  “Checking now, Alpha Nine Nine. Stand by.”

  “Negative,” she said. “Whiskey, I’m going full black.”

  “Negative, Alpha Nine Nine. Repeat, negative. We advise—”

  Jessica clicked the switch down, cutting off her copilot in Tampa in midsentence. She then reached down underneath her seat, feeling for the box and the connecting wire. She gripped it tight.

  “Good-bye, Whiskey,” she said, and released a guttural roar as she ripped the cable out of the floor. She examined the purple wire, limp in her hand, and then tossed it behind her, satisfied she now had full control of the Raider.

  Jessica pushed back her sleeve to read the new coordinates written on her arm. She typed them into the navigation system and then spun the nose of the Raider to the east.

  “Sorry, Charlie,” she said aloud as she pitched the helicopter forward and shot off.

  74.

  DOWNTOWN WASHINGTON, D.C.

  FRIDAY, 11:42 P.M.

  The Deputy Director flipped up the collars on his jacket and pulled the Nationals baseball cap lower on his head. It had been stupid to risk exposure at a high-profile hotel like the Willard InterContinental, just a stone’s throw from the White House. He cursed himself for his weakness. And at a time like this.

  The lobby of the Willard was full of foreign agents and, boy, would they love to have spotted him here. How many times had his operatives found valuable information in the walls and wires of that very building. The same hotel where Abraham Lincoln had stayed, where Martin Luther King, Jr., had written his famous “I have a dream” speech, where countless business deals, foreign plots, even revolutions, had been hatched.

  But he couldn’t allow his own activities at the Willard that evening to become part of history. The secret cables back to Moscow, Caracas, Beijing, London—they all had to be clean.

  She had insisted on a suite at the Willard, one she promised had been arranged for inconspicuously. With a few basic precautions, no one would ever know. It was safer than risking a U.S. park policeman knocking on the fogged-up window of a Cadillac Escalade. So they had arrived separately, through different doors, and taken distinct paths to the suite. Now that it was time to leave, he had changed his clothes and departed first, taking the elevator down two floors, then a flight of the stairs, then crossed the hallway and took another elevator. Once on ground level, the doors opened with a cheery ding. He brushed his shoulders and double-checked his fly.