Behold a Pale Horse

by Franklin Allen Leib

  “Yeah, Julia,” Big Dog said. “Worked on the governor’s campaigns. We got her a job after she graduated—Jesus! I recall it was with some bank here in town.”

  “That’s my thinking. Why she would have dug this up I have no idea, but we got to be real careful. J J Early is as loyal to Justice Tolliver as any of us, but he’s a mean son of a bitch. He gets wind we’re leaning on his daughter, he’ll help her before us.”

  The Mormon rose. “I’ll look into it.”

  “Carefully,” Zeke said.

  “Very carefully,” Big Dog said.

  “Very carefully,” the Mormon echoed, and left the room.

  4

  CAROLYN WHITE RETURNED to the Pentagon, where the Joint Chiefs awaited her, along with Malcolm Japes, the Secretary of State, and Mary-Ellen O’Hearn, the Secretary of the Air Force. They all looked strained, except the chairman, Admiral Josephus Austin, who looked like the cat who had swallowed the canary. “How did it go?” asked the Secretary of the Air Force, before Carolyn could even take her seat.

  Admiral Austin grinned. He fully expected Carolyn to be cleaning out her—soon to be his—desk.

  Carolyn sat, and smoothed her hair with her hands. “He listened, more than I expected. He agreed to reconsider the bombing of Qom.”

  “But didn’t cancel it, I trust,” Austin said, his good mood dissolving. The bitch hadn’t resigned after all.

  “He agreed to reconsider. I argued that the naval attacks on the Silkworm and other sites had sent the message. He agreed to wait and see what the Iranis actually did beyond the bombast.”

  “What about the rest of the world?”

  “The fleet is sailing toward home waters. The army and marine expeditionary forces are returning to bases, and the air force bomber and missile forces have returned to DefCon Four.” Defense Condition Four was a lower state of readiness than the DefCon Two prevailing during the crisis. DefCon Two had rattled the world, perhaps even more than the actual military and naval deployments, because DefCon Two meant the nuclear forces of the United States were on alert and targeted. “All except the Vinson battle group, that continues toward Cuba.”

  “I have a bit of bad news to inject,” Admiral Austin said. “The Miami Cubans sent two more Cessnas of the Fuerza Aerea de Libertad to drop leaflets; one was shot down by a MiG.”

  “Jesus,” Japes exploded. “We don’t need this! The Dow-Jones was down another three hundred points yesterday, and markets around the world are following.”

  “Why are the Miami people doing this, at this time?” Carolyn asked pointedly.

  “State doesn’t know, despite our extensive contacts within the major revanchist organizations. CIA doesn’t know either, or won’t tell me.” Japes sighed. “I suspect Cubans associated with the narcotics traffic may be pushing the fringe groups like this Freedom Air Force, but I can’t prove it.”

  Carolyn’s phone rang, the red one that had to be answered. She reached over the console of her regular phones and picked it up. “Yes?” She listened quietly for five long minutes, a smile spreading slowly across her pretty face. “Keep me posted, no less than hourly.” She hung up. “A piece of good news, or at least I hope it is. That was the Defense Intelligence Officer in our embassy in Saudi Arabia. He’s heard through confidential sources that the army in Iran has overthrown the government of Ayatollah Tabtabi and issued a proclamation: free elections within six months, an end to religious government, and the wish to enter into peaceful dialogue with all states in the region to assure the security interests of all and an end to foreign intervention.”

  “They’re telling us to butt out,” Austin blustered. “Fat chance.”

  “Or, my dear Admiral,” Japes said quietly, “they may be suing for peace.”

  Carolyn’s red phone rang again. She listened briefly and hung up. “The Secretary of Commerce. Stock market’s way up, especially those companies with heavy international trade.”

  “Then perhaps y’all might concede the president’s policy of strength might just have done the trick,” Austin said, trying to make the best of a bad afternoon.

  “Then, Admiral,” Carolyn said sweetly, “you’ll support me when I ask the president to stand down further?”

  “Let’s see what shakes out,” the old sailor said.

  “What about the battle group on the way to Cuba?” Malcolm Japes asked, rising from his seat. No one responded. “I have to get back to my office. Carolyn, please keep me apprised.”

  5

  CLARISSA TOOK A SEAT facing her husband, who sat in front of the dead fireplace. He looked exhausted. “Rupert, we have problems you have to address. Two of them major.”

  The president looked at his wife with no recognition in his eyes. She waited, then said, “Rupert!”

  His eyes cleared. “Clarissa. Jenna told me you were waiting; I’m sorry. The Lord’s work is very taxing these days.”

  “Rupert, there’s a reporter digging up bones down home, the Little Cheyenne Development.”

  “Every time I close my eyes I see Los Angeles in flames, or that federal building in Little Rock blown to bits.”

  “Little Cheyenne Development,” Clarissa said through clenched teeth.

  Justice shook his head. “Something with Jerry Earl and Susan? I don’t really remember.”

  “Money, Rupert, at the end of the campaign and since. I told you.”

  “I don’t remember,” the president said weakly. “Money from whom? Friends, Texans—”

  “Rupert, our friends were as tapped out as we were. I had to take money from other sources. Some foreign.”

  Justice became more alert. “Illegal?”

  “Yes. I thought I hid it in Little Cheyenne, but apparently not well enough.”

  “Sweet Jesus, not now, Clarissa! We’re in trouble, we’re sore afflicted, but we’re winning.”

  “I think we may be able to contain this thing; it’s only one reporter, nobody big. But the Cubans are making their play; they contributed massively when we needed it, along with some of their … friends.”

  “I sent a battle group, scare El Nieto off—”

  “Rupert, they want their island back. We promised.”

  Justice sat up straight. He had developed a tick under his right eye, and it started up. “Surely they don’t expect me to invade the place?”

  “They do. They want freedom.”

  “Shit,” Justice hissed. “Fuck ’em.”

  Clarissa sighed. She had long ceased to love her philandering husband, but she felt his pain, so far in over his head in the presidency. She also knew his future, rise or fall, contained hers. “Justice, the Cuban money didn’t come without a price. They have videotapes of you in Cuba, albeit thirty-five years ago, with the brothers Castro. They also have tapes of you consorting with North Vietnamese sympathizers and even officials, in Paris in the early seventies. How’s that gonna look, you sending American sevicemen to fight all over the world? Tapes of you consorting with an enemy you made every effort not to have to fight?”

  “You believe that?” he whispered.

  “It was before I knew you. But I’ve seen the tapes; I have copies if you want to see them.”

  “How the hell could the Miami exiles have obtained such tapes?”

  “My Miami contact—originally Zeke’s, but he no longer trusts Zeke—a fellow who styles himself as Coronel de la Hoya, says he got them recently from the Servicio Nacional de Informaciones.”

  Justice, like Clarissa and most south Texans, spoke passable Spanish. “That’s Castro’s secret police. Why would they cooperate with the Miami Cubans?”

  “Nieto Castro has to fall sooner or later; the country is broke. I suspect someone—probably someone high up—in the SNI wants to make a deal for a quiet but elegant exile. Or maybe he wants a piece of the action in the new Cuba you’ll soon restore to freedom.”

  “I can’t do that now.”

  “What else can you do? Those tapes, you consorting with the enemy in a war
many think you avoided and being chummy with the Castros, coupled with the reports of fund-raising illegalities—a bought election, the Wall Street Journal will trumpet—the Justice Department will be forced to appoint a special counsel, Congress will go holier-than-thou and impeachment hearings will follow after.”

  Justice covered his face in his hands and bowed as if in prayer. “Jesus, sweet Jesus.”

  “Rupert! What are you going to do?”

  The president raised his head, wiping away tears. His tired eyes grew cold, his gaze distant. “Clarissa, you’re my most trusted adviser in addition to being my staff of support. Squash this reporter and his story; bury Little Cheyenne deep. Stall the Cubans; we’ll rattle El Nieto Castro’s cage, but only a little.”

  “What will you be doing all the while?” she asked sarcastically.

  “My mission will be to complete the Lord’s work much sooner than I’d planned.” He threw his head back and closed his eyes.

  She stood. “Rupert. Rupert!”

  He didn’t move. It was almost as though he had entered a trance. Clarissa had an inkling of concern that Rupert Justice Tolliver was beginning to believe his hokey preaching. She got up and stalked out.

  6

  COBRA WOKE UP fully—he had learned over the years to nap like a cat, ears alert—as the big Lincoln drew to a crawl, then a stop on a gravel road. Front doors slammed, then his door was opened. He was assisted from the car by a big man with gentle hands. No threat, Cobra thought, no intimidation. He heard the car drive off as he was escorted into a building. The air smelled heavily of pine.

  Cobra was seated in a chair, and he heard his handler leave. Moments later his blindfold was removed, and he was confronted by an elderly couple who looked both friendly and concerned. “We’re to look after you,” the woman said. “We’re not to say our names, and we don’t know yours.”

  “Fine,” Cobra said, grinning. “Call me John, after the Baptist, who hid his face and those of others in the waters of purification.”

  The man, seventy or so but powerfully built, chuckled. “We’ll be Mary and Joseph, then. We’re to see to your every need, but you can’t leave. The place is guarded outside around the clock.”

  Cobra would have betted he could have slipped out, but why? He was here for a big payday. “Fine. Just now my every need is a hot shower, a large whisky, and a steak dinner with a decent claret.”

  “All easily done,” the woman said, her face relaxing into a pretty smile. “Jason—Joseph, put the man’s bags in the guest room and I’ll start working on dinner. You’ll do the drinks.”

  Cobra returned her smile as the man went out to get his bags. Cobra appreciated good trade craft; these people knew nothing and never would, but they also knew enough not to ask. He was being iced for a while; probably his handlers thought he would feel vulnerable because he was isolated and unarmed. Cobra had no illusions, but he also knew the game. If someone wanted to kill him they would have done it in South Africa, not gone through this long and expensive journey. He believed without question that the grounds were patrolled, most likely to protect him and preserve his anonymity rather than to prevent his escape.

  ADMIRAL CARTER DANIELS met Colonel Alfred Thayer at the Sulgrave Club, an exclusive Washington haunt favored for very private conversations. “The Vinson battle group will reach the Cuban operating area in fifteen hours. She has with her an amphibious ready group—nearly two, actually—around Tarawa and Saipan. Do you think Tolliver will invade?”

  “Is that enough force for the job?”

  “No, but he could blockade. The Cuban military is in shambles; those old MiGs are a fine match for unarmed Cessnas, but would be flying a suicide mission against the Vinson air group. The marines could land at various points, kill people, break things, and withdraw, leaving Cuban guerrillas behind. El Nieto Castro runs a very great risk if he doesn’t back down.”

  “How does he back down from the killing of four pilots, all U.S. citizens, in unarmed aircraft, Admiral? Especially since the mighty of the world in Europe and Asia have protested mightily about what Tolliver’s done in Asia and the Persian Gulf, but done nothing. Cuba’s just the pretext Tolliver needs to carry out more of the Lord’s work against Godless communism.”

  Daniels pondered. “Have you spoken to the vice president?”

  “Yes. Noncommittal, but not shocked either.”

  “He’s weak.”

  “But not crazy.”

  “A poor choice,” Daniels said. “Did you know that the contractor is here?”

  “I heard. You’re in charge of his custody; I don’t need to know anything else.”

  “Actually, your friend in black has him stashed about twenty miles from here, not far from your farm.”

  Thayer wondered if Daniels had found out the identity of Ramon Carvahal. The old man was very resourceful. “Has your thinking changed? I really wish there was another way.”

  “You? You have doubts?” Daniels whispered. “You’ve driven this forward from the beginning.”

  “I know. I’ll take that to my grave and to hell beyond.”

  “My answer is no,” Daniels said softly. “There’s no other way. Tensions around the world are on the boil: India, Pakistan; Iran, Iraq and Turkey; even Russia and China.”

  “The pressures on the American and European stock markets and foreign exchanges have eased, but Latin America and Asia are reeling,” Thayer said.

  “We have to know the mind and heart of Vice President Donahue,” Daniels said. “We need to know if he has the stomach for this thing.”

  Thayer sighed. “He’s due here any minute. Why don’t you stay?”

  Daniels heaved himself out of the deep club chair with a groan. “Better I don’t. Remember Benjamin Franklin: ‘Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead.’”

  Thayer ordered a cognac to ease his headache as the old admiral shuffled out, tapping his red and white cane.

  7

  VINSON AND HER escorts sailed through the narrow Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti and took up a position west of the Cayman Islands, about 140 miles south of Havana. Eisenhower and her group sortied from Norfolk and moved toward a blocking position in the Atlantic northeast of the Bahamas. The Florida Strait itself was too narrow and had too many shallow banks and reefs to be suitable for carrier operations.

  The Cessnas from the Fuerza Aerea de Libertad returned to the north coast of Cuba, flying high and tossing out leaflets they hoped would blow onshore in the Northeast trade wind. U.S. Navy F/A-18Fs from Vinson catapulted off the deck and established control with an air force AWACS that had flown two thousand miles from Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska. The AWACS had side-looking radars similar to the JSTARS aircraft that allowed it to track vehicles on the ground. “Tango Strike,” the AWACS controller called the navy fighters. “MiGs rolling at Matanzas and Camaguey.” Matanzas, near the capital, and Camaguey in the southeast were Cuba’s biggest air bases.

  “Tango Leader rogers.” said Commander Richard “Snapper” Tuttle, commanding officer of the Super Hornet squadron flying the mission. His radar intercept officer (RIO), seated behind him, relayed the instructions to the other seven aircraft on Squadron Net.

  The mission was tightly scripted; no shooting unless the Cubans did. The jets had full loads of cannon shells and air-to-air missiles, and a couple of Maverick air-to-ground missiles each in case they had to shoot anything moving on the ground.

  Snapper lead his four in a tight echelon formation down to the deck over Camaguey. Two bullet-nosed MiG 21 s were indeed rolling, with four more behind them waiting to take off. Snapper’s four roared over the runway at one hundred feet and Mach 1.2, creating deafening sonic booms and turbulent jet wash.

  One of the Cuban pilots lost control in the downdraft and skidded off the runway into soft sand. The other, Major Raul Sanchez, like Snapper a squadron commander, got off, barely controlling his gyrating fighter, and almost immediately wished he hadn’t. His missile w
arning radar warbled, indicating the Americans were acquiring him as they made a sharp turn back toward the field. Sanchez kicked in his afterburner, turning away from the airfield, and as he banked he could see none of the rest of his aircraft had moved. The missile warning radar changed to a steady tone, indicating lock-on. Major Sanchez was moments from death, and since his hands were very full, he mentally crossed himself.

  Sanchez saw one of the Americans drop on him, only meters from his right wing. Another joined up on the left. The ones he feared were the ones he could not see; they would be behind in firing position. Pobre Cuba, he thought. Not a day to die for a boludo like Castro Nieto. The American on his right wing waved, then pointed straight down. Holding the stick between shaking knees, Sanchez raised both hands above his head.

  “Big Eye, Tango Strike,” Snapper called the AWACS. “Only one got off at Camaguey and he seems disinclined to play.”

  “Same story in Matanzas, Tango,” the controller said. “One got off and the pilot immediately ejected. We have their frequency; we’ll tell your pigeon to land.”

  “Rather tell him myself, make sure he understands.”

  Big Eye gave Snapper the frequency and he dialed it in. “Piloto de la Fuerza Aerea Cubana, vuelva a su base, ahorita.”

  “Arrogant yanqui bastard,” Sanchez shot back in flawless English. “Cuba is sovereign, and you are in my airspace.”

  “Land, Cabron,” Snapper said amiably. “Or my friends and I will land you. Turn left, slow glide, right on in. We’ll grade your approach and touchdown.”

  Sanchez shot Snapper the finger, but then immediately dropped his wheels and flaps, turned, and landed. The navy jets made another supersonic pass over the field, breaking windows and eardrums, then climbed out of Cuban airspace.

  “Bigeye, Tango Leader. Next?”

  “Return to mothership. The air force from Homestead has the next watch.”