October's Ghost

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  “Ivan builds them worth shit!” Joe told his audience.

  “Can’t we do anything?” Antonelli asked helplessly. His leg wound, just above the knee, was wrapped tightly under an olive-drab battle dressing.

  “No,” Sean answered. “We can’t.”

  Lewis returned first from the scavenging expedition, his helmet filled to overflowing with a rich brown soil.

  “Set it here until he needs it,” Sean directed. The others did the same and joined the line to watch.

  The final obstruction broke away, and Joe went right for the lenses. He brought the pry bar up, holding it over his head like a vampire slayer about to plunge a stake into his quarry, and brought the sharp end down, burying the tool in the hard blocks of explosive. Once it was in, he worked it around in a stirring motion. As chunks of the stable explosive came free, he tossed them aside. He repeated the same plunge-and-clear process over and over, the fire to his right intensifying, until the shiny silver surface of the pit was visible. Then he worked with his hands and the claw end of the tool, digging away the destroyed lenses to give access to the plutonium. When half the material was cleared, he nudged the pit with his hands. It moved, jostling back and forth.

  A flash erupted from the secondary, showering Anderson with intense white sparks. He ducked and brushed those he could see or feel off, but several stuck to his jumpsuit on the back, setting small patches to smolder. Still, he ignored it. With both hands pressed tightly around the pit, he leaned into the case as far as he could, trying to get enough of a grip to lift the sphere of plutonium out. His body was weakened by the disease that was destroying his blood cells, an almost laughable malady considering what he was subjecting himself to, but he pushed his hands down, farther, deeper between the lenses and the pit, reaching... for... enough... of... a... hold... so... he... could...

  He fell backward, out of the growing haze of smoke that enveloped his body before rising into a deep black column that leaned toward the Bay of Cienfuegos. The heavy basketball-size pit came out with him. Joe held it tightly to his stomach like a medicine ball and rolled to the side, small fingers of smoke still coming from several spots on his clothing. He looked up to see Graber make a move toward him.

  “No!” Joe yelled forcefully, the command ending in a hacking cough that sounded painful and unnatural. “I’ll bring it closer.”

  Sean laid his weapon on the ground and forced the others back. All but one followed his order.

  “Colonel.”

  Ojeda again looked down to the shorter man. “He is doing this for my people when he does not have to. I will help.”

  Joe got to his knees, pulled the pit up from the ground into his gut, and struggled to his feet, his face grimacing in pain. Each step was labored as he traversed the fifty feet to the two men waiting with outstretched arms. “Take it!”

  Sean and Ojeda followed the raspy command and cradled the heavy pit between them, its mass enough to test the steadiness of their knees.

  Joe collapsed to a crouch before looking up. “It’s not hot enough to hurt you,” he explained, his voice almost gone. A trickle of bloody saliva ran from the corner of his mouth, clearing a channel on his soot-covered face. “You guard that son of a bitch with your life, Graber. It could kill a lot more than just me in the wrong hands, or in the right hands.”

  “We need to get you out of here,” Sean said.

  “No. You need to get yourself out of here, in case this breeze changes.” Joe pushed himself up to his feet. “I have to put that thing out. Gotta take its oxygen away.”

  “Anderson,” Sean said, his eyes locking on the civilian’s. The blue centers were still clear and full of fire, but he knew that the well was almost dry.

  “Just get your ass out of here and let me finish this.”

  Joe took three of the dirt-filled helmets and walked back to the warhead, unafraid of the fire, or the smoke, or the invisible particles that had already sentenced him to a much quicker death. He dumped the damp earth into the fissure in the casing around the lithium deuteride. One helmet at a time. Then he walked back for a brimming bucket that one of the men had retrieved. The contents of that spilled into the opening, robbing the pyrophoric reaction of some of its strength. The white-hot glow simmered slowly down as he added more and more dirt, losing intensity until the flames barely licked from the casing. A final bucket of loam stopped the fire completely. Joe pounded on the fill, compacting it to remove all channels for air to reach the compound. He was satisfied after a minute’s work and stepped back from the warhead, looking upon its ugliness for what he knew would be the last time. Then he turned and walked halfway to where Graber still stood.

  “I told you to get out of here.”

  Sean stared at the man, his eyes feeling warm and moist. He had lost men today. Too many men. And here was a man who did not have to die but chose to do so that others would not. “We can get you to a doctor.”

  “You can get a decon team in here to seal this thing up right,” Joe countered. The cough that followed this statement was heavy with blood, which he spit on the ground. “I’m hot. There’s residue all over me, and in me.”

  Jesus Christ, Sean thought. What was he supposed to do?

  “Get out of here!” Joe shouted in a weaker voice. “Now!”

  Sean moved away, watching as Anderson lowered himself to sit on the ground. It wouldn’t be long. The blood was from his lungs, which were undoubtedly hemorrhaging. He was going to drown in his own blood.

  “Major, we have the thing in the back of the Jeep,” Antonio told Sean, though the Delta officer did not look at him. “And Raptor is calling another helicopter to get you and it out of here. Colonel Ojeda says the plant is secure.”

  “Good.”

  “What about him?” Antonio asked, just as Anderson fell backward on the pavement, his hands dropped to his side.

  “He’s going home.”

  * * *

  Testra knocked hard three times on the door. It opened inward, a burly man looking much like him blocking the entrance. “FBI. Move your ass.”

  Sanz followed his partner in, his hands pushed into his coat pockets. Testra looked around the room for the objects of their interest but saw only lackeys. The door at the far end of the room was his next stop.

  “FBI,” he said as he walked through the door, surprising the two men sitting on the couch. He recognized both. A cell phone in the pocket of Gonzalo Parra caught his eye. Sanz came in behind, shutting the door as his eyes scanned the room, then went for a desk on the near wall and leaned comfortably against it, his hands braced on its edge.

  “What is all this?” Parra demanded, but a wave from José-Ramon Alvarez told him to cease his questioning.

  “This, gentlemen, is to inform you that your son”—Testra looked to Alvarez—“is under arrest for espionage and conspiracy to commit murder. There’ll be more, I guarantee you. You see, when you kill one of our own, we get just a little angry.”

  “Avaro?” Alvarez said with concern.

  “The cripple?” Sanz said, moving away from the desk. “Yeah. We nailed him. Plus we have some interesting tapes, you know, talking about missiles and stuff. Real interesting.”

  Parra stood. “Whatever a man’s son has done, that man cannot be held responsible for. Avaro is an adult.” He knew that the young Alvarez would not implicate them, and he was certain that they were fully insulated from any legal connection to the activities. He just had to keep José-Ramon from saying something foolish in the hope of aiding his son.

  “Maybe, but we’ll sure be checking on it,” Sanz promised, opening the door.

  “Oh,” Testra added. “By the way, your flight to Cuba has been canceled. Those nonrefundable tickets are a bitch, aren’t they?”

  The door closed behind the federal agents, leaving the leaders of the Cuban Freedom Society alone.

  “Gonzalo, we have to get Avaro out of there!” Alvarez stared at his aide. “He can’t be in jail. He can’t.”

&n
bsp; “Listen to me, José-Ramon. He knew the risks when he chose to work with us. Your son is no child.”

  “But he was following instructions,” Alvarez implored. “My instructions!”

  “Dammit, José-Ramon! Do you want to join him in prison?”

  “But they have the tape. You heard what they said. And the FBI agent—”

  “Goddammit! Listen to me! If you don’t get your head on straight, you’re going to end up saying something you regret! So what if one of their agents is dead? Is that for us to be concerned about? No, unless you say something that implicates us.”

  “But I gave the order for Portero to be killed. Avaro just passed on my instructions. He didn’t intend for that agent to be killed.”

  “And did you? No.” Parra’s blood pressure was ticking upward now as his leader inched closer to losing his grip on what was important. “We did what we had to do. We made bold moves. That is the way of the strong, José-Ramon. Portero was a pawn. He was useless to us, but he was also a danger.”

  Alvarez stared at the wall and shook his head. The thought of his Avaro behind bars, with the lowlifes and the depraved. It just could not be!

  “We still have a great fortune, José-Ramon. Remember that. The director has provided for us well.”

  “And Avaro will be blamed for that, also. That, too, was my doing, and him following my instructions.”

  Parra threw his hands up in frustration. “Will you not even try to underst—” Sounds from the adjoining room cut his words off. The two FBI agents entered the room a second later.

  Sanz went to the desk and reached under its edge, removing the miniature transmitter he had affixed there. “Thanks, fellas.”

  Testra smiled and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “Looks like we have that evidence now.”

  Parra’s eyes flared. He was a businessman, well versed in the laws of the land. “You cannot just record conversations without the authority to do so! Without a warrant! And you have none, do you?”

  “You know, Freddy,” Testra said, looking to his partner, “I don’t think we do.”

  “No,” Sanz agreed, reaching behind and under his coat. He laid the sign on the coffee table before Alvarez. “But we do have this.”

  Alvarez read the placard silently. This is a United States Government Military Facility. Right to pass is subject to approval. All activities on this facility may be monitored by electronic and non-electronic means without prior notice. Please behave accordingly.

  “You should have behaved accordingly,” Special Agent Chris Testra observed. “Now stand up and put your hands on the wall. You are both under arrest.”

  * * *

  Two hundred yards away, in a separate trailer that had been set up for the use of the guards watching over the CFS, Director of Central Intelligence Anthony Merriweather sat unaware of the events that were transpiring across the Florida Straits, or across the vacant tarmac. A knock on the door signaled the beginning of the end of his ignorance.

  “Anthony.”

  Merriweather’s eyes grew behind the distortion of the thick glasses. “Gregory, what are you doing here?”

  Back to Gregory, is it? Drummond stepped in. Art Jefferson and Frankie Aguirre were right behind him.

  “Who are these people?”

  The DDI introduced his companions. “They brought something you might want to hear.”

  Art set the cassette player on the television and pressed Play. The conversation began, prompting the DCI to test each of his would-be accusers with a look. None looked away from his weak attempt at intimidation. In just a few minutes the familiar exchange was over.

  “And this is for what, Gregory?” Merriweather sat back confidently.

  “Can you excuse us,” Drummond said to the FBI agents, who left with glances of distaste for the DCI.

  “Your company should learn manners,” Merriweather commented.

  Drummond reached under his gray jacket and scratched his chest through the new shirt he had chosen just for this occasion. “Why, Anthony? Why did you do it? You knew that Portero had something, and you ignored it.”

  Merriweather laughed quietly and with pity for his Boy Scout deputy. “Gregory, Gregory. You have so much to learn, and the tragedy of it is that you never will.”

  “Anthony, there was a missile down there. Portero wasn’t lying.” Drummond searched for some kind of recognition in the DCI’s face. Some kind of regret. “Anthony, good men died cleaning up what you could have prevented.”

  “Prevented? I didn’t even know there was a missile.” For the first time Drummond saw his boss smile, though it was not motivated by joy. It was a smile of arrogance. “And that tape is inadmissible as evidence. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

  “I just wanted to know why. You led us to the brink of something that could have spiraled out of control. The President listened to you, Anthony. He took your advice and made bad decisions about SNAPSHOT.”

  “Gregory, a President gets advice because he has to. All Presidents need it.” The DCI chuckled. “This one needs it more than others.”

  Bingo. “He wouldn’t appreciate your attitude.”

  “It would probably have to be explained to him.”

  “You certainly aren’t the poster boy for loyalty,” Drummond commented.

  “Loyalty has so many meanings, Gregory. I am loyal to what needs to be done. Cuba needed to be done, and I knew how to do it,” Merriweather said smugly. “The President could not have conceived SNAPSHOT, or anything of lesser complexity, without me there to hold his hand.”

  “I see,” Drummond said, nodding as a smile came to his lips. Click.

  “What was that?”

  The DDI reached inside his jacket and removed the recorder, unplugging the hidden lapel microphone. “Your head on a platter, Tony.”

  Merriweather pushed himself forward on the couch, his teeth bared like an animal who’d just been caught. “You son of a bitch.”

  “Foul language. That will get you nowhere. And before you complain about illegal recordings, remember where you are.” Drummond rewound the micro-cassette, ejected it, and dropped it in his shirt pocket.

  “What do you want?”

  “It’s not what I want. It’s what you will do, which is submit your resignation to the President for, let’s say, personal reasons. Tomorrow would be a good time.”

  “Or else?”

  “Or else this tape will find its way into the court case that’s being prepared against your CFS friends.” Drummond saw the coming question. “Yes, the cuffs are on them right now. Espionage. Conspiracy to commit murder. You hooked up with some really bad boys, Tony.” The DDI thought he would relish this, but it wasn’t all that enjoyable.

  “I still haven’t done anything illegal,” Merriweather protested.

  “No, but the things you said about the President won’t do anything for your reputation. You won’t be able to find a job teaching shop in high school.”

  “So if I resign, that tape gets lost.”

  The DDI tipped his head a bit, a few teeth showing. “Looks like you don’t need it explained to you.”

  Merriweather drew in and let out a huge breath. “This is blackmail.”

  “You really are smart.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because the country doesn’t need another scandal just because you led the President into a corner,” Drummond explained. “The President doesn’t need it, either.”

  The DCI’s head shook. “All right. We do it your way. Lose the tape, you naive little boy.”

  “I prefer the term ‘loyal,’ if you don’t mind,” Drummond said, before leaving his former boss alone to ponder the meaning of the word, as well as his future.

  EPILOGUE

  PASSAGES

  It was a sight the citizens of Havana could scarcely remember. Not since Batista had a leader of their nation appeared on the balcony overlooking the plaza without a military uniform on. For their new leader, too, it was a
n unfamiliar experience. Yet it was a statement, possibly the strongest, that the interim president of the nation of Cuba could make. People, he was saying by shedding his uniform, would rule the country. Not the military. Not ideologues. People.

  “It was a fine speech,” Antonio Paredes said as President Hector Ojeda returned from the balcony.

  “I do not give speeches, Papa Tony,” Ojeda objected. “I simply speak.”

  It was a lesson Antonio wished he could transfer to every politician across the straits. But then this man was not a politician. He was a patriot. There was a vast difference, Antonio had learned.

  “Fine words, then, Señor Presidente.”

  Ojeda did the strangest thing in reaction to the CIA officer’s revised observation: He smiled. “Becoming accustomed to the title will take some time. Rank is an easier concept to grasp.”

  “I doubt you will have any problems adjusting.”

  Ojeda accepted the comment hopefully. “And you, Papa Tony, I owe you...the country owes you many thanks for what you have done.”

  “Many people made this day possible,” Antonio added humbly.

  “Many lives given,” Ojeda continued. “Cubans. Americans.”

  Every great victory had its cost. Often that was measured in human terms. This momentous achievement was no different.

  “What will you do first, Señor Presidente?” Antonio asked, moving the conversation to the future.

  “It is not a difficult thing to decide,” Ojeda said. “I have learned from the chaos and the glory as new countries were born from their old selves. I will simply let the people have a voice. They will have the opportunity to send me on my way.”

  Antonio chuckled. “You’ve learned well from our example, I would say. But, remember, any American could sit for hours and complain about what is wrong with the country.”

  “And at night they go to sleep knowing that the next day they can rise to continue their complaining,” Ojeda said, turning the American penchant for nay saying into a beacon of stability.

  “I’ve never quite seen it that way.”

  “I did not expect you would,” President Hector Ojeda said with a very knowing grin. “You were looking from the inside.”