October's Ghost

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  * * *

  Greg Drummond cleared his desk and laid the map of the area surrounding Cienfuegos flat on it. Mike Healy weighted the corners with assorted items just removed from the DDI’s work surface. The map was one of the plethora produced by the Defense Mapping Agency, using geological and satellite surveys to create representations of the land and its features that were the most highly detailed available on earth. This one, of startling detail, was not even one of the newer digitally produced maps that the DMA had started to turn out. Everything was going to computers, even the fine old art of cartography.

  In addition to topography, the map had been prepared with the notable facilities denoted as blocks of dark gray. A corresponding notebook or computer database gave precise information on any and all of the man-made landmarks. This particular map had been produced for the Agency’s survey of Cuba’s industrial capacity, giving it a heavy emphasis on that type of structure. Cuba had developed quite an industrial base in its heyday as a member of COMECON, the economic bloc headed by the former Soviet Union with the goal of fostering development and trade among its signatories and outside countries. Chief among these industries were sugar production, various light industries, and, as a home-grown necessity, oil refining. The refineries at Cienfuegos and Los Guaos were denoted on the map by small, crisp blocks and dots of gray that signified the various buildings, cracking towers, and holding tanks. That was on the east side of the bay. On the western shore were three small manufacturing plants—all closed—and one of Castro’s follies, the never-completed nuclear-power plant that COMECON had financed. When the subsidies from the now-dead East bloc dried up, the huge complex had simply been abandoned, just two years shy of completion, despite an offer of funding from the People’s Republic of China. It was just one in a string of failed ventures that Castro had attempted over the decades to bring his island nation into the technological twentieth century.

  But the symbols on the map also pointed out the daunting task that the two Agency executives had before them. Finding buildings was easy. Finding a missile was not.

  “So Vishkov is supposed to be here,” the DDO said, pointing at the southwestemmost tip of the Bay of Cienfuegos from his upside-down vantage point. Drummond slid to the side, motioning for him to come around.

  “Castillo de Jagua.” The DDI recalled the few visuals he’d seen of the eighteenth-century fortress that had once guarded the narrow opening to the bay. “It appears that Castro wanted Vishkov isolated as well as incarcerated. Have you ever seen it?”

  Healy shook his head.

  “I think the word is imposing. Lots of stone. Lots and lots of it. It looks like it belongs somewhere along the Thames.”

  The thought had occurred to them that Vishkov might be valuable to snatch. He would likely know the precise location of the missile. But any attempt to wrest him from his fortress prison would require a battalion of troops at least, and would blow the secrecy that was vital to finding and securing the weapon. Besides, as Castro had proved through the years, he had little need for those whose usefulness had been exhausted.

  “So he’s there.” Healy leaned over the desk, both fists resting on the map. “Now where’s the missile?”

  Drummond surveyed the landscape. Hiding places were numerous, but one just didn’t pull a thirty-year-old missile out of a warehouse and fire it. It needed a stable launch surface, just as the Russians had built when first bringing them to the island. Fueling equipment would also be required. A missile did little by itself without support. “Take your pick.”

  “Any longstanding structures?” Healy wondered aloud, checking the DFS (Date First Sighted) notation of the facilities in the area.

  “Other than dwellings”—Drummond joined in the search—“none.”

  “I just thought that if something had been around since the time of the crisis, we could assume it might be a long-term hiding place.”

  It was a possibility, but not the best one. None of the older structures could be considered secure, and Castro had demonstrated that he was conscious enough about secrecy that he was willing to employ hit men on U.S. soil. That wasn’t proven, Drummond knew, but it was a bet he’d lay money on.

  “It couldn’t be at the Castillo with Vishkov,” the DDI said. “There’s very little open area inside the grounds, and the ceilings wouldn’t be high enough.”

  “How high are we looking at?” Healy asked.

  “The analysts back then figured a minimum of ten feet for the SS-4 on its TEL. They had to run down all kinds of rumors after the Russians pulled out, that there were still missiles left there hidden in caves and places like that. Problem was, there were no caves with the proper dimensions to hold an SS-4 or the components of it.” Drummond saw that Healy was taken aback at that. “No, there weren’t folks running around peeking in caves. It just turned out that the Agency had access to pretty complete speleological surveys of the island done before the commies took over. As for the other places, nothing panned out.”

  “Do you think some of the rumors could have been a product of this missile?” The DDO kept hoping that all this affirmative talk would somehow be negated by the findings in Moscow, but he didn’t really believe it would.

  “No. Don’t ask me why, ‘cause it’s just a feeling. I think Castro had this planned out pretty well, including the storage of it.”

  Healy had to agree. “Then where?”

  The DDI rubbed his eyes and sat down, pulling his chair forward to the desk. “Let’s see. It would need a big area, solid footings. Level, too. Access to roads, yet far enough away that casual observers would notice nothing.”

  “It’s times like this that I wish we’d had more luck getting people into the upper echelons of the PCC,” Healy said. The Partido Comunista de Cuba was the singular force in Cuban politics and government, headed, of course, by Fidel Castro as first secretary. The Agency had been unable to penetrate the higher ranks of national politics in Cuba, despite assistance from exile groups and the expenditure of huge sums of money. The DGI, Cuba’s equivalent of the KGB and CIA, had been unbelievably effective in keeping the power apparatus of the PCC free from foreign influence, even that of so-called “brother countries” from the defunct East bloc.

  “Well, now would be a great time to turn back the clock,” Drummond said. “S and T have that time machine finished yet?”

  Healy chuckled. “Next week, I hear.”

  The DDI ran his finger along the outline of the bay, trying to pick out those areas that would fit the bill. “Here.”

  The DDO bent closer to the map. “Let’s see, that’s...” He paged through the data book that had accompanied the map. “Recio Machine Works. Built in ’72 by an East German company. Light and heavy machine tools—mostly high-speed lathes. Armaments, it says. Cannon barrels.” It had amazed him and many of the analysts that Cuba had never fully exploited its weapon-building capability. The barrels produced at Recio had been shipped promptly back to the East for assembly into full weapons systems. “Closed in July of ‘92. Lack of fuel.”

  “I’d call that one possible.” The DDI went on, checking several other sites against the background intelligence. “Jesus, there could be ten or eleven possibles on the west side of the bay. I’m not even thinking about the eastern shore.”

  “Don’t. I doubt they’d have Vishkov traveling all the way over there.”

  “It’s too close to Cienfuegos,” Drummond observed, his finger touching the outline of the city of a hundred thousand. “Too many people move around that area.” His eyes fell on the old Soviet sub-support facility that was never completed because of U.S. pressure in the late seventies. It was pretty much demolished and rebuilt as housing and various small buildings, none of which would support what they were looking for. Another failed construction project. The DDI wondered if any world leader was as good at starting something and as inept at finishing.

  Drummond’s attention went back to the western shore, about five miles inland and close to th
e marshes that spread east from the Zapata Peninsula. It was there, and it was huge. Far enough from any habitations. The people had probably been forced to move. But did it make sense? “Mike, what about the plant?”

  “What...the nuclear plant?” He carefully studied the lay of the land as best one could from a flat projection. “Sure, it would work, but the rest doesn’t add up. The Russians helped build it, and they’d be the last ones Castro would want anywhere near the thing. I’m sure it wouldn’t have been there, but there’d have to be signs. Besides, construction didn’t shut down until a couple years ago.” The DDO stood back up, stretching his back and arms.

  “Right. But they could have kept it going.” Drummond’ s head turned left, looking up at his counterpart. “The Chinese, remember?”

  Healy’s thoughts wandered off to mull that over.

  “So?”

  “So why didn’t Castro take them up on it? He had them all over that proposed space-launch complex he dreamed of building out by Holguín. Why not accept their help and finish the plant? We know he could have used the power output. What was it supposed to be—four hundred megawatts off each of the four generators? That would have saved him almost a third of his oil imports! And this is something he knew he’d need. The Soviet Union was a dead dog already when he stopped construction and turned away from the Chinese. Plus, if he’d taken the assistance and proceeded, it would have come under closer IAEA scrutiny.” The International Atomic Energy Agency had approved the plans for the plant and would have begun a complete-inspection regime once it was substantially complete.

  The DDO turned to the corresponding page for the Juragua Nuclear Generating Plant. “Greg, it’s a big sucker.”

  “I can see that.”

  Healy read further. “A hundred and twenty separate buildings—the Russians never were good at building things compact, except for crew quarters on their ships and subs.” He had thought quarters were cramped during his stint in the Navy, but not after seeing intel on Russian vessels. “Damn, the whole thing is a slab of concrete, it looks like.”

  “It could launch off the TEL anywhere there.”

  “Ten thousand acres.” Healy looked up from the book. “Over sixteen square miles of buildings, construction, and all kinds of places to hide something like a missile.”

  The DDI looked to the northernmost part of the map. Didn’t the intel from the past day say the Cubans were retreating to the south? “Mike, I think we may be onto something here. The government forces are all backing into this relatively small part of real estate with no value other than...”

  It fit. “I see. What’s there to protect? Swamp? And it damn sure ain’t an example of great defensive tactics. Our DOD liaison nearly fell off his chair when he saw the report.”

  The thought of thousands of Cuban troops being ordered to defend the area in a desperate setup caused the DDI to shrink away from the map. He eased back in his chair, the DDO turning and resting against the desk, facing his colleague.

  “Greg?”

  Drummond looked up, his eyes exhibiting a fear his friend had never seen before. “Mike, if Castro is willing to defend the thing, willing to sacrifice those troops, then it means he’s just buying time.” His voice cracked on the last words, the memories of his youthful experience with Armageddon assaulting his perception of the here and now. “He really has it, and he’s going to use it.”

  Healy looked past the DDI to the drawn shades. The sun would be rising soon, and for the first time in his life, he wondered, really wondered, if he might not see it. This was more serious than even the crisis thirty years before that had made it possible. This was really going to happen. One of the goddamn things was in the hands of a desperate man, and he was going to use it. “What are we going to do?”

  The DDI searched the emptiness of his brightly lit office for the magical answer that would make it all better, the same kind of wish he had made when his child walked in front of the ice-cream truck two years before. It hadn’t worked then, and it wouldn’t work now. Skill had saved his son’s life then, and skill this time was all they had.

  “Say a prayer and get to work pinpointing it,” Drummond said, adding that which he believed had really saved his son and hoping that the Man upstairs would help him return the favor by saving a few himself.

  * * *

  Tunney found it amusing that it took the poet Pushkin’s use of the thirty-three-character Cyrillic alphabet, known as the “modified civil alphabet,” in his writings to bring about an unofficial standard that gave the Russian people a true national language. Before that it had been a contest of usage between the Cyrillic used by the Orthodox Church and that introduced by Peter the Great. State versus the power of God. And a poet had settled it!

  The Russian language itself was much more difficult for Tunney to master than the mere act of memorizing the stylized Cyrillic alphabet, which he did with ease. He had learned the language with some difficulty after joining the Agency, through courses sponsored by the Department of State. Conversational use of a language was a far cry from committing important phrases to memory, and, though he could easily ask for the bill in one of Moscow’s dreadful restaurants—Dai’te, pazhah ’lsta shshot—he still had trouble understanding the rapid-fire practice of the language that the locals were adept at.

  Thankfully this assignment would require no verbiage. Just a comparison of what he saw with what he remembered. His territory.

  The stacks of file cartons were surprisingly well organized considering that more than seventy years of military death and prisoner records were stored in such a small space. Actually that made his job easier this day, for all he had to do to put himself in proximity to the area of his interest was to feign disgust with the cramped work area and carry an armful of folders to where he wanted to be.

  Once there, it was just a matter of time to locate the Red Army death records for the year of 1962, paying close attention to those departed soldiers whose service jackets showed assignment to artillery units. Two hours into his workday he had found what his superiors had requested. It was time to report.

  “Anna.”

  She turned to see her co-worker gripping his stomach. An ‘I told you so’ look followed. “The bliny and caviar, huh? What did I tell you?”

  “I’m sorry,” Tunney apologized, assuming the required stooping position to simulate severe cramping. “Can you get me a car back to the embassy? Please?”

  The woman stomped off, swearing under her breath that she was not going to let any more of her team members eat in the city until the job was done. Now she’d have to pull Patrick’s share of the load today. The only justice was that he’d be throwing his guts up back at the embassy.

  Tunney followed dutifully, using the skills he’d acquired as a child to fool his mother, but had an almost impossible time holding the laughter in as he thought of asking the chief of station for a note explaining his sudden illness. That would be worth framing!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THUNDER

  Frankie closed the front door easily, only a soft click from the lock signaling that she was home. A single light was on in the living room to her left, and she could see her mother stretched out serenely on the couch, a blue-and-yellow afghan covering her from knee to shoulder. She smiled and took a blanket from the closet and laid it over the woman who had always been there for her and was still, planting a soft kiss on her forehead that caused a slight stir.

  She switched off the light and made her way down the hall toward the back bedrooms. Hers was on the right, the door open, and she went to it and tossed her jacket onto the unmade bed. Her penchant for cleanliness and order had been superseded by events. Next she unclipped her holster and laid the weapon in the recessed shelf of her nightstand. There it would be close, not so much because she feared intruders, but she had learned early from the needless deaths in her old stomping grounds that a gun in the wrong hands, of the little variety particularly, was deadly. On the few occasions it was n
ot with her—agents are never really off duty—she kept the weapon in a locked safe high on a shelf in her closet. Little Cassie would someday learn about guns, something Frankie believed was much preferable to her picking one up at a friend’s house and not knowing what it was capable of. Knowledge was power, and it was safety.

  Little Cassie. Frankie pushed the cracked door open enough to poke her head in. The Winnie the Pooh night light cast an angelic glow on the singular, constant beauty in Francine Aguirre’s existence. She was still a mama’s girl, barely four, a quietly intelligent child who never complained when Mommy had to work late but was as possessive as a pit bull when she knew it was “their” special time together. There was never enough of that. Never would be. Looking down on the slender face and the thumb that still found its way to the mouth despite all the talk of being a big girl, Frankie wondered if there ever would be.

  She wouldn’t disturb her angel’s sleep with a kiss, which would surely wake her. It always had. The light sleeper syndrome, just like her mother. But she didn’t really mind those few times when Cassie would awaken. In fact, she had to selfishly admit that it was a purposeful plot on her part sometimes. But not tonight. It was late, actually early, and her daughter was an early riser. Frankie would give her the biggest hug she could in the morning before she went off to preschool. The biggest hug from her, and one from Art, and...

  Frankie shrank back from the opening, the tears for some reason spilling as though a dam had burst. She backed into her own bedroom and pushed the door almost closed, leaving enough of an opening so she could hear if Cassie started fussing. Her hands came up and covered her face, save the eyes, to muffle the quiet sobs that accompanied the tears.

  Why again? she silently asked the darkness. Why was she still hurting so much? Hadn’t it all come out the night before? Thom was gone. Gone! She would grieve, she knew, just like she had when her brother died in the car accident a decade before, but why the flood of emotions? It was supposed to ease, wasn’t it? Yet it wasn’t. It was getting worse. Almost two days later the pain was coming from a deeper place. She remembered the place, but strangely it wasn’t where the sorrow had emerged from when her older sibling, her only one, wrapped his new Camaro around the light pole on Mulholland. That was pain. True pain. So was this, but there was something more, a mix of feelings and clouded thoughts that somehow made it worse.