He radioed an aide and told him to call military and civilian police and ask if there had been any sign of an incapacitated truck between El Príncipe and central Havana. That, specifically, he was looking for a military truck carrying two prisoners and four officials. Another aide was told to call the military prison to establish whether they had left on schedule.
He rapped his knuckles on the table, puffed on his cigar, and suffered an attack of asthma. He pulled out his inhaler and a bottle of pills, swallowing two without water. It was after eleven that a report came from a police motorcyclist that an apparently empty truck had been spotted off the Vía Blanca. Moments later the aide reported excitedly: “There are four bodies in the truck. All shot through the head.”
“Identifications?”
“The police are reporting in by radio. They appear to be government officials. Do you wish the names?”
“No!” Guevara said, pausing for an agonized moment at the humiliation that lay before him. “Get me Comandante Valdés.”
Every accessible resource of a heavily militarized totalitarian society was mobilized that night before midnight had struck. Patrols were sent out scouring the roads in every direction from Havana. Beyond advising the network that an American man, age about thirty-five, and a Cuban woman, also about thirty-five, were two of the quarries, not much could be said. They might be with two resistance guerrillas, they might be with four, they might conceivably be with eight.
The missiles! Che thought. Valdés had taken the precaution, two nights ago, of guarding the Swiss Embassy so that no one could enter without scrupulous investigation. Suddenly he thought: the commercial telephone! Beginning a few months ago an order had gone out to expedite instead of to encumber outgoing and incoming calls. They were, to be sure, all monitored, and almost all were calls from Cubans in the United States to grandchildren, or sons, or in-laws. Suddenly it occurred to Che that conceivably Caimán might have reached out for a commercial telephone and had the good fortune to get through to the United States without the usual six-to-eight-hour wait.
It required a single telephone call to cancel all overseas service until further notice.
And then, Che thought, there was the sea. Obviously the resistance movement that had engineered the escape would at least consider that possibility.
A small boat. God knows enough of them had left Cuba, landing in Florida, even though that ass of an “admiral” that Fidel likes, never mind his manifest incompetence, insisted that his patrol boats brought in the overwhelming majority of those vermin.
Another telephone call, rousing the admiral from his bed.
Che had ascertained that they had left the prison at nine. The ambush would have taken place roughly between nine-fifteen and nine-thirty. There was no way of telling which of the hundred tiny ports along the north coast of Cuba the guerrillas had headed for, if they were gone to sea. But it was reasonable to suppose that they would go out no farther than, say, fifty kilometers from Havana, the area in which the concentration of boats was heaviest.
Probably not a speedboat, since these were difficult to commandeer, were always conspicuous, and were in any case unreliable in a sea. Probably they went for a sailboat. Or a fishing boat—these Fidel had nationalized so that there were at hand rosters of them, where they were supposed to be, etc. That would be another telephone call.
Where was he? Yes, 10:30 embarkation, let’s suppose. Traveling, say, at ten knots maximum. Fifteen nautical miles north of Cuba at midnight, 25 miles at 1 A.M. 35 miles at 2 A.M., 45 miles at 3 A.M., 55 miles at 4 A.M., 65 at 5—what time was dawn?
He screamed out at an aide: “When is dawn tomorrow, quick?” The aide rushed to that morning’s paper: 6:16. Twilight, one half hour before that. He would send army aircraft. They would describe an arc north of the island, from two hundred kilometers east of Havana to two hundred kilometers west. They would go out seventy miles—seven-ninths of the way to Florida—way beyond the distance they could legally detain traffic, but the hell with that. Six coast guard cutters would head instantly to that arc—six into four hundred, approximately sixty kilometers apart—and they would listen for reports from the aircraft. Any boat, any boat detected heading north would be stopped and searched.
Two more telephone calls.
He stopped. An awful thought. “Get me the Admiralty communications chief. Instantly. Wake him up if you have to.”
“There is always a communications official on duty, Comandante, at the naval base.”
“Get me him.”
In a few minutes he was talking to a young man obviously awed at the presence, over the telephone, of Comandante Guevara.
“What would be the typical radio equipment of a small fishing boat?”
“Ship-to-shore, Comandante?”
“What other kind is there, for God’s sake.”
“Ship-to-ship, Comandante.”
“What kind do they mostly have?”
“A ship-to-shore radio usually has, also, facilities for ship-to-ship.”
“What is the range?”
“That depends, Comandante, on the wattage of the set.”
“Well what is the wattage of the average set?”
“Anywhere from eighteen to fifty volts, Comandante.”
“What is the range of the eighteen-volt set?”
“It depends on climatic conditions, and on the time of day.”
Che sensed that with this young man he would need to be very specific.
“Could an eighteen-volt set reach Miami from Havana?”
“Not very likely, Comandante.”
“How close would he have to be to Miami before reaching Miami?”
“It depends on climatic conditions, and on the time of day.”
Che reached into his pocket and gulped down two more pills. “Assuming existing conditions, what would be your estimate?”
“There is a lot of luck, Comandante, involved in such matters. Atmospheric conditions, for instance.”
Che gritted his teeth. “What would be the chances, eighty kilometers from Miami, of a ship’s signal reaching Miami at, say, 3 A.M.?”
“They might get through, they might not get through, Comandante. I would hesitate to give you the odds.”
Che Guevara slammed down the telephone. He asked one aide if he had got through to the admiral. The answer was that yes, he had; the admiral had understood the Comandante’s instruction and had instantly issued orders to the coast guard vessels, but given the hour of the night there might be a delay of as much as two or three hours before the coast guard vessels, other than the two already on duty, would be seabound.
“You told him it was a state emergency?”
“Yes, Comandante.”
“And the air force?”
“We could not reach Comandante Portillo, but I got through to his adjutant and he told me the orders would go out instantly.”
“Did he say when the planes would be airborne?”
“He said, Comandante, that there would be no point in getting them into the air before twilight, since the moonlight is almost gone now, but that they could easily monitor the arc you described by four-thirty.”
Che sat back. He heaved under the pressure of the asthma. He ordered the oxygen tank brought from his car. He breathed deeply from it, his mind constantly skating about the one question remaining, which had shrouded every moment, even while he was talking over the telephone.
Should he call Fidel?
He dreaded even the thought; the thought, however, would not go away. Che Guevara had written Guerrilla Warfare, a missal on guerrilla tactics, a heavy book which he knew would earn him great recognition as a revolutionary tactician. In that book, drawing from his experience in the Sierra Maestra, he had stressed the usefulness of small, light, mobile enterprises. This, of course, would be exactly the moment when Fidel would ask him what in the hell Che had been up to, bringing two important prisoners of state in one lousy truck with only four personnel. He would answer th
at that was the way he—and Fidel—and Camilo Cienfuegos and Frank País and Juan Almeida had always operated, that theirs was not a Maginot Line-type operation, that four armed guards had always been deemed sufficient to bring two unarmed prisoners from anywhere to anywhere …
How much easier it would be to call him in the morning, tell him that guerrillistas had ambushed the truck with Caimán and the girl, that they had got away, but that they had been apprehended on Highway X on route to Y, or at sea, en route to Florida.
Would he then say, “Why didn’t you call me?”
Che reasoned that if he had the prisoners at hand, that question would quickly reduce to a matter of protocol. If he did not have the prisoners at hand, violations of protocol would be the least he would have to worry about.
He rang. “Bring me some tea.”
He would stay exactly where he was. Ideally situated. Main office of Cuban Intelligence: of the Jiménez.
Until he heard from the land patrols. Or the sea patrols. Or the ocean patrols.
Or from Fidel.
He reached into his shoulder bag and brought out a copy of the poems of García Lorca.
Thirty-seven
Blackford, Catalina, and Velasco sat in the Aguila’s utilitarian little saloon, below. It was illuminated by two low-burning kerosene lamps hanging on gimbals so that they appeared steady, imperturbable, in seas rocky now, as they plodded into northerly winds gusting at over twenty knots. They could barely discern the shape of the captain at the wheel, through the top third of the companionway hatch, through which they let in air.
“You’d have to be less than a hundred yards away to see this light,” Blackford said. And turned to Velasco.
“Cecilio, you’re the goddamnedest son of a bitch in the whole world. I think if the struggle for the West is won it will be because you left the losing side to join the winning side, and you turned the fucking tables. I’ve got to have the story, where the hell have you been, what the hell you’ve been doing the last six weeks. But first, let’s calm down.”
Velasco maintained himself on the windward settee by bracing his leg on the steel stanchion that ran up the after end of the little dining table. “There is a lot to think about very quickly, Blackford. We are at least eleven hours from Florida.”
“Right. And when we run into the Gulf Stream, with this northerly, it’s going to be rough.”
“Where is the Gulf Stream?” Cecilio asked.
“It runs about thirty miles wide, northbound into the wind, beginning just outside Florida. It snakes northeast around the Keys, which is where we’ll find it. We should hit it between seven and eight. There is a lot we need to do before then. Well, not a lot, but enough. We’ve got to get through to Washington.”
“Blackford, any radio messages will be picked up by Havana. They would then find us in a minute.”
“We can’t use the radio yet, I agree. Not yet. What do we have on board?”
“A Raytheon, twenty-five watts.”
“It’s in working order?”
“It would be more accurate to say that it sometimes works, I have gathered from the captain.”
“Now listen, Cecilio, here is why we have to use it at some point if there is ever any question about our getting through. The Soviets have installed missiles in Cuba.”
Catalina clarified: “Medium and intermediate-range missiles.”
“The intermediates travel twenty-six hundred miles. The medium-rangers, twelve hundred miles.”
Velasco’s eyes closed nearly shut. “Are you certain, Blackford?”
Blackford pointed to his own eyes. “I have seen them. Thanks to Catalina. That is why you found us in jail, instead of at the Tropicana.”
“It is mad.”
“That’s the whole point. So mad, my guess is there isn’t anybody in Washington has any idea of it. Otherwise there’d have been action. We’ve got to get them the word. The best way to get them the word is to use a commercial pay phone in Key West.
“Let’s think, now: If we use the radio, the Cubans will pick up the signal on RDF and home in on us. If we were certain we could get through to an operator right away, we could wait until the last minute before they came in on us and then radio. But if this Raytheon is like a few others I’ve experienced, it might take anywhere up to fifteen minutes to get through, and we might not get through at all. Though at least it’ll be early enough not to be competing against too much other ship radio traffic.” He turned to Velasco. “Ask the captain, Cecilio, what kind of range he’s had with the radio.”
Velasco returned from the cockpit to say, “He says sometimes he has reached as far as Matanzas.”
“How far is that?”
“A hundred and twenty kilometers.”
“He says ‘sometimes.’ Ask him, at the safe end, what range can he count on?”
Velasco went up again and came back to say, “Fifty kilometers. Thirty miles.”
“Thirty miles. About when we hit the Gulf Stream—7 A.M.” He got up and, hanging on tightly to the guardrail, made his rolling way to the little chart table and flicked on the red overhead light. He studied the chart carefully and returned to the seat.
“I’d say this: Let’s think in terms of radio at 7 A.M. If they haven’t spotted us by then, we’ll continue to guard radio silence. It’s pretty unlikely they’d attempt to board us when we’re as close as thirty miles from the U.S. On the other hand, if there are any signs of action, we’ll have to go for broke on the radio wherever we are. Now let’s, before we do anything else, get exactly right how this model works. Are you familiar with it, Cecilio?”
“The captain checked me out on it yesterday.”
“Well, let’s not put it off. It’s been a relaxing day. We may as well get to work.”
For a full half hour, both men hanging tight to the guardrail, they diddled with the equipment, doing everything except broadcasting. They could now operate it in the dark, if they had to. Blackford left the set on standby. “We’ll let it keep warm.”
“Where’s the radio telephone guide?”
Velasco fished it out and Blackford pored over it. At Key West, Miami, and Lauderdale, marine operators guarded telephone channels. “Obviously our first go should be at Key West—Miami is a hundred miles farther away, though probably their receivers are more powerful—and then hope like hell for Miami if Key West doesn’t pick us up. A reserve we can flash to is MAYDAY on the emergency channel. At that point, if we’ve gotten no action, Cecilio, ¿Quién sabe?”
Catalina, her body very nearly upright at the end of the settee, had fallen asleep. Not easy to do, given the rolling seas.
Blackford got up and, maneuvering her comatose legs, stretched her out gently on the settee, which was not quite long enough for her to extend out on, so he put two life cushions under her legs, lifting her feet against the wooden bulwark. He fastened the bunk straps around her. She would not, now, be tossed onto the cabin sole if one of those rolls, coming now every few minutes, tilted the vessel into an angle that overcame the serene gravitational inertia of a body lying on a level surface.
“Who will you call?” Cecilio asked.
“I’ve got to think that out. Help me. Most obvious: Duty Officer, CIA. We both know that telephone number. But God knows who will answer. Presumably he wouldn’t dismiss it as a nuthouse call, but who knows.” Blackford paused. “I think maybe the better first number to try would be Trust’s—he is an old friend, a professional colleague. This is Sunday, and I know his home number in New York. The third number—if Trust doesn’t answer, and CIA bombs—is the home telephone number of McCone. Dammit, I have it, in code, in my logbook, which resides, happily and uselessly, in my suitcase at Catalina’s. Do you by any chance have the number, Cecilio?”
“No. Anyway, it wouldn’t work.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is off on a three-week honeymoon.”
“Come on! Not that I am against three-week honeymoons—Sally and I had a three-
day preliminary honeymoon before you so rudely brought me in from Taxco.”
“So then, what?”
“Well, the alternative at that point is—maybe not obvious, but indicated. We call 202-456-1414.”
“What number is that?”
“The White House. Probably they wouldn’t put me through to El Presidente. But those operators are something else. They would put me through to somebody. And the point is just: get the message through.”
Blackford thought it prudent to reduce to writing, in priority, all the contingent alternatives. The numbers to call. The first, the second, the third. Preceded by the channel to importune first, second, third, All Ships At Sea—that kind of thing.
He was very tired, and he found his mind refractory in the matter of setting down exactly the priority of objectives. Ideally the President (or the Deputy Director of the CIA, since McCone was out of town) would be told the salient part of their message: that the Cubans had nuclear missiles, prepared to be armed.
What priority ultimately attached to the secrecy of the communication? Suppose that Walter Cronkite, on vacation in a sailboat, overheard the transmission, aborted his vacation, and went on the air to say that he had caught a communication to the effect that the Cubans had, etc., etc., etc. This would deprive the White House of time for deliberating the nature of their response to the Soviet-Cuban threat, but wasn’t that risk infinitely preferable to not getting the message through at all?
Blackford forced himself to record, in the log, exactly what would be done, (a), (b), (c), in the event of a) suspicious attention to the Aguila by airplane; b) suspicious attention to the Aguila by patrol vessel; c) outright assault on Aguila by airplane; d) outright assault on Aguila by patrol vessel. In this contingency he made two subdivisions: one, an attempt to sink the Aguila by gunfire or whatever, and two, an attempt to board the Aguila. He wrote out corresponding radio and other activity for every contingency. He read these out to Velasco, who made two suggestions, both useful. Who would be on the radio? Who on the wheel? What would the helmsman do? In what circumstances?
See You Later, Alligator Page 24
