by Stuart Slade
At the back of the bridge, the Navigation Officer turned to the two Midshipmen under his care.
"Tonight, you will be writing up today's battle in your journals. Do so with great care and in great detail for at some time in the future, people will read of this battle and of how we, at great and terrible cost, fought our way through an Indian fleet. And, having won the battle, we just turned around and went home. They will not believe it and they will ask you ‘How was this so?' and you will consult your journals and say with great authority that, even though you were here, you do not know."
INS Dunagiri OffPattle Island, Paracel Group, South China Sea
Captain Gandhi (no relation) was pacing his bridge. He was known throughout the Navy as Gandhi (no relation) from his insistence on making it clear that he had no known family connection with the controversial politician. It revealed him for what he was, a wise and cautious man. If he had claimed a relationship with Mahatma Gandhi, he would have been damned by those who despised the politician as a naive and foolish near-traitor while he would have been despised by Mahatma's supporters for trying to cash in on the memory of their revered hero. By denying any relationship he pleased both sides. Caution was bedeviling him now. There were thing he had to do to make preparations but what they were depended on what was happening far to the North West. He was about to take another circuit of the bridge when the quiet was interrupted by the noise of the secure communications unit.
The Ship's Sparker was behind the console in a second, acknowledging receipt and writing down the message as it was decoded. Slowly, he went white and his eyebrows raised until they met his hairline.
"Sir, message from Commander Dasgupta, captain of Rana and the senior surviving officer." Gandhi (no relation)'s face went white also at that piece of news.
"He reports a major fleet engagement started at dawn. Mysore has been torpedoed and hit by six inch gunfire. Admiral Kanali Dahm is dead, the ship is dead in the water, on fire and listing. It is unclear whether she can be saved. Rajput torpedoed and sunk with heavy loss of life. Ranjit is dead in the water after suffering heavy damage from 3.9 inch gunfire, Udagiri has superficial damage from splinters and is putting Ranjit under tow. Rana is severely damaged by 3.9 inch gunfire, she can make ten knots. Ghurka is heavily damaged by missiles and gunfire, she's burning. Ghauri has superficial damage from splinters and is alongside Ghurka helping to fight fires. Himgiri exploded and sank with no survivors after a direct hit from a Kabuto missile, Nilgiri sunk by six inch gunfire, a few survivors, not many.
"Sir, Commander Dasgupta reports that all ships are almost out of ammunition and the gas turbine ships are low on fuel. He is withdrawing to the south."
"The Chimps, what about the Chimps?" Ghandi (no relation)'s voice was anxious, the catastrophic toll of sinking and burning ships, of dead and wounded sailors had shaken him profoundly. He'd read about naval actions but nothing had prepared him for this scale of butchery.
"One cruiser sunk, two crippled. Four destroyers known sunk, three more dead in the water. Only one of the Chipanese destroyers remains capable of fighting." Suddenly the Sparker's voice rang with pride. "The Chimps have disengaged and are withdrawing to the northwest Sir. They've given up and are going home. We've won."
Air Operations Center, Hainan Province.
"We can send Shukas out to finish off their survivors. Admiral. They're in range."
"No, we cannot. And we will not, Have you read how bravely the Indian sailors fought? Outnumbered, outclassed, they sailed their ships into the middle of our fleet and fought their ships to the end, firing their guns even while their destroyers were sinking under their feet. Such opponents do us honor and we should be proud that we have fought them, toe to toe, ship to ship. To send aircraft to slaughter them now when they are defenseless would be despicable. Cowardly and dishonorable. They are out of the fight, they have nothing left to defend themselves. To send our bombers against them now would be a craven act, the vindictive murder of gallant men. It would be the act of a vicious and treacherous butcher. We cannot do it; we will not do it."
The Admiral smiled gently. "We will say of course that we let them escape out of respect for their bravery and that is not so far from the truth. The Americans are a sentimental people and the gesture will be of much importance to them. It will dissuade them from interfering and that is of critical importance to us. But never forget, the reason we let them go is a matter of respect for our own honor and our own character as virtuous warriors."
CHAPTER SIX: REGROUPING
The Roof Garden, Imperial Hotel, Havana, Cuba.
"You're sure about this, Dapper John?" Meyer Lansky's voice showed that the question was just a formality. He already knew the answer, it made far too much sense. In the midst of the pain from trust betrayed, he felt a deep sense of relief. Better this, better this by far, than the rat being one of his proteges. Meyer Lansky, like all wiseguys, knew all too well that life was limited. The Grim Reaper waited for every person and that he was no exception to the rule. One day, soon in the cosmic scale of things, he would die, either by an assassin's bullet or by what was charmingly known as "natural causes." He knew that day was coming and also knew that disaster awaited Cuba when it did.
Meyer Lansky was a member of no Family, yet was trusted by them all. That was how he was able to make Cuba work. When he died, there would be the question of who took over from him. If it was any member of the Families, the power struggle would tear Cuba apart. Also, if the new President wasn't known and trusted by the Families, there would still be the same power struggle. Lansky was quietly proud of what Cuba was now and what it was becoming. He wanted to give it a chance to settle down, to mature, to become a real country.
With that end in mind, he had spent his years on the island watching for youngsters who reminded him of himself. He'd picked them, brought them up, trained them and indoctrinated them in his own philosophy. They were his aides and they spoke for him. Any that betrayed that trust were dropped from the program, sent back into the whirlpool that was Mob-run Cuba. The others, the ones that held to the code, they were slowly building the same level of trust with the Families that Lansky enjoyed. One day, the best of them would succeed Lansky as Chairman of the Commission, a member of no family, trusted by all. Just as Lansky was Jewish and could not be a made man, they were Cuban and could not be made. That meant that, with them, Cuba would be safe.
Thank God, the name he had been given was not one of them.
"Absolutely certain Meyer. I'm sorry, but there's no doubt about it. You can see why I wanted us to meet here, away from your pad. We leaked different information to all the suspects and, sure enough, we got a message back. MH was short of H. So we leaked more information with different details of each Hotel. MH was the Havana Metrodome. A Lucchese hotel but that doesn't matter. We tried a couple more just to nail it down, but it all came out the same. I'm sorry."
"No need for that John. Rats have always been a part of our Life. Look, I got news for you. We got word back from the USSS on that stuff we asked them to look at."
"The H? Anything interesting?"
"Kid called Delgado brought us the results. Good kid, his grandfather was in The Life, one of Moran's men back in the old days. Anyway, it went the way we hoped. The USSS pressured the FBI into running a trace on the H. It's from what used to be Afghanistan, now called the Afghan Satrapy. The Caliphate makes a big thing about suppressing opium growing but they're lying through their teeth. Oh sure, they whack an opium farmer now and then; but all the farmers have to do to get official protection is to swear not to sell to Moslems. The ones who break that oath are the ones who get whacked. The rest are cordially encouraged to sell as much opium to us infidels as we'll buy. It's Afghan heroin, John."
Lansky watched Gotti chewing the information over. "It's weird Meyer. To cover the costs of the operation, the people bringing this stuff in must be getting it virtually free. It doesn't make sense. If they're getting free H, they'd make more m
oney by bringing it in and selling it openly. Their cut to the local crew would be less than the cost of smuggling it in."
"‘Bit more information John. We gave the Feds four samples picked up at different places. They're all from the same batch. Cut the same way, same profile. It's like a fingerprint and they're all the same."
"So they got a big batch." Something clicked in Gotti's mind. "Whoever it was got paid for services rendered with a huge batch of Afghan H. They're using it to try and infiltrate here, set up a shadow drug trade." Another light went on. "And they staged the Washington shooting to try and get the Feds to send Marines in here to clear us out. That way, drugs would become illegal, the price would skyrocket and they'd would have a ready-made supply line, smuggling route and distribution net."
"That's what the USSS thinks. We're off the hook for the Washington shooting. Even the Feds reluctantly admit that. As for who? I'm sure the rat will tell us that. Eventually."
Room 6212, Imperial Hotel Havana, Cuba.
"Quick darling, it's on. . ." Judith Peterson hurried from the bathroom and settled in front of the television. There was no way she was going to miss this. The staccato beat of the theme tune was already starting, played over a montage of 1930s automobiles and men carrying Tommy guns,
In the 1920s and 1930s, a group of dishonest hypocrites and sanctimonious killjoys teamed up with crooked politicians in a giant conspiracy called Prohibition. The intent of this conspiracy was nothing less than to cheat the honest working man out of his right to a drink when his day's labors were through. Yet whenever tyranny raises its hand, a group of Americans will stand against it. A small group of brave young men fought the Prohibitionists by smuggling the working man's drink over borders, defying bad weather and Coastguard patrols to bring it across seas and lakes, and by building and operating secret breweries. As word of their skill in evading the treacherous traps and ambushes staged by Prohibition Deputies, Treasury Agents and FBI men spread, these young men became known as THE UNCATCHABLES. The music swelled triumphantly. This is their story. Tonight's episode is First, Fight Thirst.
The credits stopped and the program cut to an advertisement for some cigarettes whose active ingredient was quite definitely illegal on the mainland. Judith took the chance to settle herself more comfortably. "You know, Dave, I really wish they'd show this back home."
"A few of the independent channels do, very late at night. The Colombo family will sell the show to any network that wants to put it on. Don Joe Colombo was so annoyed at the way Italian-Americans were depicted on The Untouchables, he started a TV studio here in Cuba just to make his reply. You've got to admit, the way he depicts Elliot Ness is a real hoot."
Judith Peterson giggled. The Uncatchables showed Ness as a buffoon, always taking surreptitious swigs out of whisky bottles concealed around his office. "Hey, Dave, I don't suppose Warpath is on here this week is it?"
"Season premier is next week. I looked it up before we fixed the dates to come here. We'll be back home for the new season." David Peterson shook his head. The previous series of Warpath had ended in a cliff-hanger that had kept the whole country agog. Would the gallant Union Army scout Brave Eagle rescue the beautiful Mary-Lynne Chambers before she was ravished by the evil Captain Cartwright Towers of Quantrill's Raiders? Tune in next season folks.
The advertisements finished and the television cut back to the show. A street scene, reputedly a Chicago precinct.
An hour later, it was over. The Prohibitionists' evil plot to steal the precinct election had been foiled and the stuffed ballot boxes replaced by the originals. The anti-Prohibition candidate had won and his party was throwing a party to celebrate when The Uncatchables turned up with a truckload of beer for the celebrations. All was well with the world, until next week at least.
"Time for dinner. Fancy going to the Margarita?"
"Mmm sure. They do gorgeous tongue there." David Peterson laughed and took his wife's arm as they left their room. He'd never eaten tongue until she'd persuaded him to try it, now he was a firm convert. The lift bell rang and the doors slid open. They were about to step in when they saw the four people already inside.
•'Ohh, I'm sorry Mister Lan. ... I mean Mister Pres. . . . Your Hon...."
Lansky gave an affable grin. "Mister Lansky will do just fine. Step in, we're going down. And how are you two doing at our tables?"
Judith gulped a little. She'd heard that even the most powerful people on the island used public doors and elevators like everybody else but she hadn't quite believed it. Then, the reasoning came to her. Like everything else, the security situation in Cuba was a weirdly twisted version of everywhere else. The gangsters knew they were safe as long as they were surrounded by tourists. It was when they were on their own they were vulnerable. So they always mixed with people as much as possible. "It's been up and down Mister Lansky. We've lost more than we've won I'm afraid."
"You'll forgive me if I say I'm pleased to hear that Ma'am. It's not winners who pay the electricity bill for the Golden Boulevard." The six people in the lift laughed. "You going back to the tables now?"
"After we've eaten, we're going to the Margarita for dinner first. They do wonderful tongue there."
Lansky nodded. "Tongue sandwich, using a Kaiser roll. My favorite lunch. When you order, tell the waitress I said you were to get the middle cut of the tongue. No tip or end. Give her my card, she'll see to it."
"Why, thank you Mister Lansky." The lift stopped in the galleria and the doors slid open. The Petersons left, Judith clutching Lansky's business card in her hand.
"Nice couple." Gotti's voice was casual.
"And they'll remember Cuba fondly enough to come back John. And lose more money here."
The party crossed the lobby. Outside the hotel, Lansky's stretched Lincoln was waiting, two mob gunmen leaning against it. Lansky's party settled in and the car swept them out into the stream of traffic. A lot of Ambassadors on the road tonight; the shifts on the tables were changing. The little Indian Ambassador was a perfect car for Cuba, cheap enough for the Cubans to afford, tough enough to run without maintenance. Gotti looked around the car.
"You like the Lincoln Meyer? I prefer the Packard myself. Bigger trunk."
There was more laughter from the wiseguys. Lansky shook his head. "The Lincoln's got a better ride, especially with the weight of armor this thing carries. Caddy's been too clever for their own good with the Coup de Ville, too many gadgets. The Packard's good though. Nice engine."
The car pulled up at the Tropicana. Once again, the quick trip through the lobby, surrounded by tourists who couldn't quite believe that the President of Cuba used the lobby and the public elevators like everybody else. Then, up to the penthouse suite that served as Lansky's palace. In the anteroom, his secretary was putting the cover on her typewriter and packing up to go home.
"Estrellita?"
"Yes, Mister Presidente?"
"I'm sorry to keep you so late but there's one thing I have to ask you to do before you go home. Could you step in please?"
"But of course, Mister Presidente."
The doors closed behind them. Once inside his office, Lansky sat down behind his desk. "John?"
"Estrellita, I've been preparing a report on security here for Mister Lansky."
"And you would like it typed? I will be happy to do this for you."
"Thank you, but before I finish it, could I ask your advice on something? You see I don't speak Spanish. Could you tell me what the Cuban for a female rat is?"
"Why of course. Spanish for a female rat is......" Suddenly
the meaning of the question struck home and the woman's eyes opened wide in panic. She turned quickly, running for the door but two of Gotti's gunmen were already waiting. They grabbed her effortlessly by the arms, one carefully removing her bag in the process.
"Thanks boys. Take her down, we'll deal with her later. I'll be right with you."
"She should be able to tell you everything you need to know." Lan
sky's voice was neutral, then he looked up. The affable smile and gentlemanly nature had gone completely, leaving the New York gangster in sharp relief. Gotti was suddenly scared of Cuba's President and remembered another thing that Lucky Luciano had said about him. Meyer Lansky is the hardest man I have ever known. "And when you've got everything you need, I don't see any reason why a rat should die easy, do you?"
Seer's Office. National Security Council Building, Washington D.C.
"Good evening Snake. The boss is in a meeting I'm afraid. I'll tell him you're here though." Lillith smiled at The Ambassador and pressed a switch on her intercom, "Boss, Snake's here to see you."
"Oh. Probably a good thing, ask her to step right in please. And, Lillith honey, we're done here for the night if you want to go home. You can take Raven back with you if you like."
"Thank's boss, I'll hang on though." Lillith let the switch go. "Step right through Snake." This, she thought was going to be interesting.
The Ambassador stepped through the door into the Seer's office. He was behind his desk as usual but the person with him was a stranger, one she had never met before. A woman, long black hair, olive skin and a definitely Mongol cast to the eyes. Not Asian, Mongol. Russian perhaps? Not a beautiful face but a strong one with character. There was something disturbingly familiar about her, yet also something very strange.
It took The Ambassador a few moments to pin the strangeness part down. The woman's clothes were cheap. Oh, they were clean and neat but cheap. A simple white blouse and a dark skirt. Store bought, probably one of the chain stores that sold things at cut price. The blouse didn't fit quite right and that was what had seemed so strange. The Ambassador was aristocracy and had lived a very long time, all of it with people who were wealthy. She was so used to custom-made clothes and expensive fabrics that anything else looked strange. Especially here. Then she gave the woman a point in compensation. Her clothes were cheap but her necklace was beautiful; a sort of carved white ivory with purple overtones.
