CURSE THE MOON

by Lee Jackson

  Mike paused again. “They’re open up and down the line,” he replied.

  “Good. Now, do exactly as I say.”

  “Well, now Atcho that kinda depends … ”

  “We don’t have time for that, Mike. There was an attempt against the premier today. We both know what would have happened if it had succeeded. I know where one of the principal conspirators is, and where he’s going. I need your cooperation to bring him in. I already have the full cooperation of the premier’s effort. Now, will you do as I say?”

  Mike whistled into the phone. “Wael, Bud, I do admire the way you git aroun’. Let me check.” Moments later, he came back on the line. “Okay, pahdna. You got it, short’a nuclear war.”

  “Good. Now don’t take what I’m going to say personally, Mike, but in this instance I need more than your word. After all that’s happened today, if this story hits the press, you could kiss the arms treaty goodbye. The Cold War would be set back at least ten years.” He paused to let that sink in. “If something happens to me, a complete, written account will be distributed to fifty newspapers in this country and overseas.” That was not true, but Mike couldn’t know that, and it was the best defensive scheme that Atcho could come up with on short notice. “I’m the only person who can close this up quietly. Are you sure I have complete cooperation?” The knuckles on his hand gripping the phone had turned white.

  “Wait,” Mike said.

  Atcho looked around. They had arrived at National Airport, and were driving along a road to a group of hangars set apart from the main terminal. Through chain link fencing, Atcho saw a private jet silhouetted against the night sky. It was surrounded by a group of dark sedans.

  Mike came back on the line. The good ol’ boy tone had disappeared from his voice. “It’s your ballgame. What do you want?”

  The sedan rolled to a halt. “First, put the entire eastern seaboard on full military alert.”

  Mike whistled again. “Whew! You sure don’t ask for much, do you? What else?”

  “Do it, Mike. I’m borrowing a private jet – but the owner doesn’t know it. We’ll be lifting off from National in two minutes. I want a straight-line flight plan from here to Havana. Tell the Soviets to arrange my entry into Cuban airspace. If need be, the premier can personally call Fidel. I should arrive in two to three hours.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Another jet took off ten minutes ahead of me. Send a couple of fighters to tail him, but instruct the pilots to give no indication of their presence.”

  “Do you mind telling me why you want the alert?”

  “Because I think he’ll fly south, but he might do something else. And he’s smart enough to fly below radar. Maintain as much radio silence as possible. He’ll be monitoring the frequencies.”

  “Why don’t we shoot him out of the sky?”

  “Good idea,” Atcho said sarcastically. “I can see the headlines. Navy shoots down civilian aircraft over international waters. Cover-up suspected. And the Soviets would appreciate your not dispensing with their General Govorov before they’ve had a chance to question him about others in the conspiracy.” He paused. “By the way, your guys would probably like to find out how much damage he’s done to our national security. He is also known as General Clary.”

  A long silence ensued, and then Mike spoke again. “Understood, Atcho. Play it your way.”

  “Good. I’m boarding the plane now. Have someone establish a direct, secure channel so we can talk while in flight.” He hung up and looked across at Ivan.

  The KGB officer regarded him with awe. “Do you realize that you have given orders to the heads of two superpowers? You’re running the military forces of one, and the intelligence apparatus of the other?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it in those terms.”

  45

  Two hours later, Atcho watched the lights of Miami float beneath him. Ivan sat in the co-pilot’s seat, alternately watching flickering instruments and staring into darkness beyond the windshield. Fatigue weighed on Atcho, but he fought to stay alert. No time to think about eating or sleeping. “Mike, are you there?”

  “Yes, Atcho. Everything is set. There’ll be a welcoming party of sorts when you land.”

  “What about the general?”

  “His flight path is just as you predicted. You’ll both be directed to land at Camp Columbia. Contact the tower before entering Cuban air space. The general should land about twenty minutes after you do.”

  “Okay.” Atcho was glad to have taken the direct route. “If I need anything else, I’ll call. Otherwise, I’ll be in touch when this is over.”

  “Good luck!”

  Atcho acknowledged the sentiment, and began a shallow descent. Twenty minutes later, he settled the sleek aircraft onto a runway at Camp Columbia, and powered it to a halt. A pickup truck pulled in and signaled for him to follow. Soon, they maneuvered in front of an isolated hangar. Immediately, they were surrounded by armed troops.

  Followed by Ivan, Atcho opened the door and descended to the ground. An officer met him at the bottom of the steps. “I am Eduardo Xiquez,” Atcho said, and introduced Ivan.

  The officer introduced himself. “My instructions are to render all assistance. The other plane is on final approach now.”

  Atcho turned and looked toward the other end of the runway. High in the sky, but descending rapidly, a pair of landing lights indicated the path of the craft as it settled to the ground. Then, the descending rumble of engines became audible, and grew in volume as it touched down. It coasted to the same spot where Atcho had first stopped, then followed the same pickup truck to a separate parking area.

  “How do you want to handle this?” the officer asked.

  “Surround him, disarm him at the door, then bring him to me,” Atcho replied. He moved to the shadows.

  As he watched troops move into position, he experienced a curious sensation. For twenty-seven years, Govorov had stayed ahead of him, knowing in advance what was going to happen to him. For the first time, Atcho was out ahead of the general.

  Atcho imagined the anxious relief the general must feel, believing himself in sanctuary. He would open the door and step out, expecting a friendly welcome. Instead, he would be treated roughly as he would be seized, and his biggest surprise would come when he was brought before Atcho.

  The jet coasted to a stop. Two soldiers moved to either side of the door, rifles raised and aimed toward its center. Moments later, Govorov emerged.

  The moon was high, casting shadows that sharply contrasted against the objects that created them. In the eerie light, Atcho saw only Govorov’s narrow forehead and strong jaw. His heart beat fiercely as he watched soldiers take the general’s arms and jostle him forward. His attention alternated between the man struggling indignantly against his captors, and vivid memories of the same figure standing over him as he lay on the ground peering through tortured eyes just a few miles from this place. Then, Govorov stood in front of him, staring in astonishment.

  Atcho stared back, disconcerted by the changed visage of General Clary. Gone were the amiable eyes and stooped shoulders, as well as the air of paternal congeniality. Instead, Atcho regarded a fierce, proud face that seethed with anger and defiance. Under the general’s loose clothing, a powerful physique strained against his captors.

  Govorov relaxed and laughed. The sound echoed through Atcho’s mind, recalling mocking tones that had inhabited his nightmares all these years. “For two cents,” Atcho whispered, “I’d wring your life out with my bare hands.”

  “Atcho,” the mocking voice of late-night phone calls crooned. “I’d be happy for you to try.” Govorov peered into Atcho’s eyes. “I see that all my secrets are out.” He shrugged. “I took a risk. I lost.”

  His study of Atcho intensified. Then he looked around at the Cuban soldiers surrounding him “How did you do this?” he asked with genuine interest. “I knew you were good, but you’ve surprised even me.”

  Atcho did not im
mediately respond. He glared at Govorov, and fought to contain overwhelming hatred that urged him to end the general’s life, slowly and painfully. “Why?” he asked at last. “Why did you betray your country, your friends, and your family?”

  “Which country did I betray, Atcho?” Govorov appeared amused. “Have you figured that out yet? I’ll tell you. Neither!” He spat out the last word. “My parents were Russian immigrants to the U.S. Their mission was to produce me.” He laughed at Atcho’s disbelief. “My training began very early – I spent summers in East Berlin and Moscow.” He paused. “You see, my life was manipulated as much as yours.”

  “You made choices,” Atcho said, his tone unforgiving.

  “Perhaps, but I enjoyed the pay, prestige, and privileges of an officer of the two most powerful countries in the world. It was a game.” He laughed again.

  “What about your family? What about Peggy and Chrissy?”

  Govorov chuckled. “Atcho,” he said in a jocular tone. “What do they matter? They served their purpose. I’m sure they’ll get along.”

  “You sociopath,” Atcho snapped. His mind transported him to a room somewhere in Havana where he had recovered from Captain Govorov’s beating. He saw again the slowly rotating ceiling fan, and the strong features of Juan.

  Govorov ignored the epithet. “You turned things around nicely, Atcho. Now I’m a hunted man. If I escape, I’ll live in shadows, running from the two most powerful countries in the world. And I blew two military pensions to boot!” He grinned maniacally. “A new challenge, wouldn’t you say? Meanwhile, you’ll undoubtedly reap gratitude from the leaders of both superpowers.”

  A screech of brakes caused both men to turn. A Jeep came to a stop on the runway, about fifty feet away. Its top was down, and a massive figure sat in the passenger’s seat. As Atcho watched, the platoon of soldiers surrounding them snapped to attention. Then the figure clambered from the Jeep and strode toward Atcho and Govorov. He was tall and barrel-chested. His face was bearded, and he wore a fatigue cap. A cigar protruded from his mouth.

  Atcho sucked in his breath. He was about to meet Fidel Castro.

  Castro stopped and observed them coolly. “This is a night of ironies,” he said at last. “Two stolen jets enter my airspace illegally.” He looked at Govorov. “On one is an old friend who helped save my air force from American bombs during the invasion so many years ago.” He paused and turned to Atcho. “On the other is a traitorous countryman who has become an American citizen, and represents the Soviet KGB.” He faced Govorov once more. “You’re the only man I ever knew who is wanted personally by the heads of state of both superpowers. You didn’t tell me what you’d done when you called to request entry.”

  Govorov grinned and bowed slightly.

  Castro pulled heavily on his cigar, and then blew a cloud of smoke into the air. He turned to Atcho. “And you are the only man, to my knowledge, who has traveled under the personal protection of both the president of the United States, and the premier of the Soviet Union.”

  “I told you!” Govorov said gleefully. “You see, Atcho, you should be grateful.” Suddenly, he lunged at a distracted guard. Govorov seized the soldier’s rifle, and aimed at Castro’s heart. “I’m not ready to be taken yet,” he hissed. “Tell the men to drop their weapons. Now!” He stepped behind the hapless guard, and held an arm around his neck.

  Castro looked at him coldly, but nodded. Around them, soldiers lay their rifles on the ground.

  “Tell them to move to the runway, but stay in sight.” The guards did as they were instructed. “Now, my friend Fidel, move slowly in front of me. We’re going to board my jet. Then, you’re going to order it refueled. I’ll need a fresh pilot, and clearance to fly to Colombia. I’m sure one of the drug cartels would provide protection for me.”

  As Atcho watched in dismay, the trio set off across the tarmac. Castro led, followed by Govorov. Weighted down by the rifle, and holding onto the guard in front of him, he walked clumsily.

  On the runway, the jet stood gleaming in the moonlight, a soft glow emanating from its open door. Govorov’s foot hit a pothole, and he stumbled. The guard shoved against him, and the rifle clattered to the ground, out of reach. Govorov whirled. For an instant, no one moved. Then, Govorov sprinted toward the jet. Castro lunged at him. Govorov stepped aside, and continued. He passed the jet and disappeared into the shadows on the other side.

  Meanwhile, soldiers rushed to retrieve their weapons. The guard who had been hostage seized his rifle, pulled it to his shoulder, and fired in the direction where Govorov had run.

  Atcho sprang into action. When Govorov began his race, Atcho was after him. He passed the guard just as the shot was fired, then barreled past Castro, and cleared the jet in time to see the fugitive disappear into the deep shadows next to a hangar.

  He reached the same corner, and halted. Pressing against the front wall, he listened, but a low roar of distant aircraft prevented hearing anything else. He looked back at the soldiers. They were still gathering their weapons and organizing themselves.

  Atcho edged around the corner. This side of the hangar was dark. He paused to allow his eyes to grow accustomed to blackness, and then surveyed the area.

  The asphalt surface ended halfway to the rear. Hard, barren dirt continued to a high, chainlink fence running alongside the building. It wrapped around the rear, and was topped with barbed wire. Assuming it ran all the way around, Govorov was trapped.

  Staying close to the wall, Atcho crept along the hangar. His eyes probed the darkness, searching for movement, while his ears strained for a discordant sound. Blocked by the hangar, the moon was not visible. However, Atcho saw that its glow created a long shadow that tapered away by the rear corner. Most of the back, and the entire opposite side of the building must be bathed in moonlight.

  Govorov would stay in the shadows as long as possible. When found, he would be vicious, fighting desperately for his life. He might have already spotted Atcho.

  He heard a scuffling noise. A dark form slid around the rear corner, coming in his direction. So, Atcho thought, he just found that there’s no place to run. Govorov came into view, a dark shadow against a wall. Atcho stepped into the open. “It’s no use, Govorov. Give it up!”

  Govorov laughed. “So, Atcho, it’s just you and me at last. Why don’t you come and get me?” He stepped away from the wall, and backed toward the rear.

  Atcho advanced carefully. “Come on, Govorov. It’s over. The soldiers will be here any moment.”

  “That’s okay, Atcho. Maybe I’ll take another hostage. Maybe I’ll take you!” He lunged out of the darkness and across the short distance between them. Atcho spun away, and felt something sharp pierce his arm. He whirled again to face his enemy, crouching for the next assault. Behind him, he heard voices, and the noise of running boots on asphalt.

  Govorov also heard the soldiers. He circled toward the rear of the building.

  “It’s over, Govorov. Give me the knife.”

  Govorov laughed. “What’s that expression they have in America? It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.” He moved into full moonlight, and looked around wildly. “I don’t see any fat ladies, Atcho. I just see you.” He lunged again.

  Atcho dodged, and stepped into the moonlight. He felt extremely calm. “Come on, you miserable coward. You always hid in shadows. Let’s see what you can do in the light. You still have an advantage. You have the knife.”

  Govorov hesitated just inside the shadow of the hangar. He turned to look at the approaching soldiers. Then he stepped into the moonlight. A crazed leer crossed his face. While their shadows waltzed in lurid symphony against the barren ground, the two enemies circled warily, sizing each other. The moon watched, uncaring.

  Govorov lunged again, aiming the knife just below the rib cage. Atcho dodged away, and faced him. Govorov grinned savagely. He wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist, and lunged again. Atcho pivoted to his left, kicked with his right foot, and caught the general’s wr
ist. The knife flew across the ground.

  Govorov gasped and swooped for the knife. He was too late. Atcho dove after it, and wrapped his fingers around its handle.

  Govorov landed on him. The two men rolled in the dirt, their hearts pounding, sweat streaming from their bodies. Their lungs heaved. Govorov pushed Atcho onto his back, and sat over him, forcing Atcho’s hand down, with the knife.

  The wicked blade gleamed in the moonlight, less than an inch above Atcho’s chest. He felt the sharp point prick his skin. Desperate, he clubbed Govorov’s head with his left fist, and rolled onto his right side. Seconds later, he was on top of Govorov, the knife still gripped firmly in his hand. He pushed with all his strength against the general’s upright arm, and felt him weaken. The weight of his entire upper body pressed down on the knife handle.

  Govorov’s arm gave way. A scream wrenched the night, breaking even the distant rumble of aircraft.

  Atcho’s mind flashed to the sound of his own scream, twenty-seven years ago. He relived the agony of his beaten body and watching his tiny daughter carried away. Then he felt the knife crunch through bone and sinew. A spurt of thick blood gushed into his face. Govorov writhed beneath him.

  Atcho pushed the knife harder, and turned it against muscle tissue inside the upper left portion of Govorov’s chest. “Do you feel that, you son-of-a-bitch?” he yelled. He raised his arm to strike again. A hand closed around his wrist. He heard a voice.

  “It’s over, Atcho. It’s over.” He struggled against the restraining arm, but felt strength slipping away. He turned his head weakly, and peered at Ivan.

  “Let’s go,” the KGB officer said. “There’s no more you can do here.”

  Atcho nodded. He breathed deeply and struggled to his feet. Beneath him, Govorov ceased to move. Atcho looked around.

  The platoon of soldiers surrounded him, their rifles trained on Govorov’s limp figure. Castro stood at their center. He studied Atcho. “It’s a shame you can’t work for me,” he said.

  Atcho glared at him, panting heavily. “Not a chance,” he gasped.