Arsenal

FOUR

I’m drowning. Thor’s body realized it before he was fully conscious. He emerged from a warm, dark unconsciousness to the feel of water searing his throat, the taste of salt filling his senses. Instinctively, he began flailing his arms and legs, pushing himself toward the surface twenty feet above. The same survival instinct clamped his mouth shut and made his lungs strive to extract every last molecule of oxygen from the air still trapped inside.

Hours later, it seemed, he broke the surface. He drew in a deep, shuddering gasp, as he only then started to realize how close he’d come to buying it.

With sudden clarity, the details of the accident came flooding back.

The tanker, jinking violently to avoid a missile. His own response, the hard diving turn of his Hornet, the water glistening below, looking soft and inviting. He remembered the flameout vaguely, just enough to wonder how he’d managed to pull the ejection seat before the massive G forces had drained the blood from his brain and thrown him into oxygen-starved unconsciousness.

The life jacket. Why wasn’t it inflated? Thor swore, coughing up seawater. He quickened the rhythm with which his feet beat at the water as he felt for the manual inflation tube. There it was, on the left side of the life jacket. He screwed the retaining valve apart, put his lips around the hard plastic tube, and blew.

Immediately, he felt the swell of expanding plastic around him. With each breath, the life jacket started contributing to his buoyancy rather than weighing him down. Finally, when it was fully inflated, he turned his attention back to his surroundings. Sea state three, maybe four, with whitecapped waves obscuring his line of sight. He caught a glimpse of an unnatural fluorescent yellow fifty, maybe seventy-five feet away, and started stroking doggedly toward it. It bobbed into view, then disappeared behind the growing swells. The wind was in his face, blowing spray and wavelets up his nose.

From the summit of the next wave, he caught sight of it again. If anything, it was farther away than it had been when he’d started swimming toward it. At this rate, there was no way he could get to it.

He paused, treading water, the full impact of his situation starting to sink in.

The rough water around him was blood temperature, and survival time without slipping into hypothermia was almost unlimited. But warm water brought hazards of its own, the ones that downed aviators feared more than almost anything else. This part of the ocean was host to a wide variety of sharks, all of which were more at home in the water than Thor. Their senses of smell and their acoustic ranging abilities rivaled that of any submarine.

He touched his face with a hand, then held the limb in front of him.

Thin streaks of blood trickled down from his fingertips to his wrists.

Thor groaned. Even more than the rhythmic motion of a panicked swimmer, blood attracted sharks. The scent traveled for miles, enticing every natural predator with the prospect of an easy meal.

Wounded prey the sharks would know it immediately.

Despite his years of training, panic crowded the back of his throat.

He forced it down, concentrating on remembering countless survival lectures and ample practice in open ocean.

Thor stripped off his flight suit, knotted the legs, and flung the garment over his head while holding the legs to inflate the rest of it with air. He tied the neck portion shut, along with the arms. The flight suit swelled satisfyingly as the cotton fibers soaked up water and held the air in.

Thor gathered up his strength and lunged onto the inflated flight suit.

According to what he’d been told, floating instead of treading water accomplished two things. First, he could conserve his strength, extending his stay time in the warm water. Second, by relying on the natural buoyancy of the flight suit, he could avoid the frantic flailing motions of treading water that attracted sharks.

Was there anything else? Of course. He turned the flight suit over, unzipped one leg pocket, and drew out the standard Navy-issue shark repellent and dye marker. He cracked both open, spilling the contents into the water. A sickly yellow tint spread through the water, highlighting his position for the sea-air rescue helos that he hoped would be overhead shortly.

But would they? He considered the matter, his heart sinking.

He and the tanker had been far off course when the collision occurred, well outside of the group’s flight pattern.

While Jefferson’s radar had undoubtedly held them, it would take some time to get the helos vectored over.

How long? Too long.

The tanker crew could they have made it out? Not likelyhe’d seen the fireball, and no chutes. For better or for worse, he was the only passenger the SAR helo would have.

He glanced nervously at the water around him, imagining sharply raked dorsal fins lurking behind every swell, and started stroking for the life raft.

“Where the hell is he?” Batman slammed his hand down on the TAO’s desk. “Damn it, what was he doing inside the no-fly zone? And why didn’t you give him a vector back to Tanker Alley?”

The TAO was pale and shaken. “Sir, they didn’t look that far out-of-bounds.” He gestured at the large-screen display covering the wall before him. An ominous stick figure marked the spot where Thor’s Hornet had last been detected. The estimated location was being transmitted to every ship in the battle group, along with the air assets overhead.

“He’s not too far out of area. Admiral.” The TAO tried to sound confident. “We should have him back on deck in ten minutes.”

Batman stared at the TAO, cold anger lighting his eyes.

“You better, mister. You damned well better.”

Maybe the tanker crew had gotten out? Thor felt a moment of irrational hope. Maybe they were just over the next wave, drifting in closer. He tried to believe that they’d ejected in time, but the memory of the massive fireball he’d seen just as he ejected kept intruding.

Just at that moment, he would have given virtually anything not to be alone in that warm, churning water.

He tried the PRC-70 one more time, speaking slowly and loudly into the small handheld radio tuned to military air distress frequency. “Home Plate, this is Hornet Three-zeroone. Do you copy?” He held the radio to his ear, desperately concentrating on the hissing static.

Had that been a small, extra crackle, an indication that someone was keying a mike on the other end? He felt a surge of hope, followed immediately by despair. No, it hadn’t been. Whether the problem was the notoriously unreliable batteries or some malfunction in the radio from the force of ejection was impossible to tell. The only thing that mattered was the end result no communications. And without that, trying to vector Jefferson’s SAR assets to his location was an impossibility.

He turned the radio over and studied the back. The tough casing was partially shattered, and he figured he must have hit it against the canopy during ejection. The radio might have even saved him from breaking a leg. But just now, it seemed like a bad tradeoff.

The life raft looked farther away than when he’d started swimming toward it. He set out for it again, alternating between keeping it in view and searching the sky for the SAR helo.

“As of two minutes ago, there was still no contact on Major Hammersmith.” The Marine Corps colonel’s voice was grave, but professionally detached. “All six helos are engaged in a standard expanding square search pattern around the last data. Additionally, S-3 Vikings and E2C Hawkeyes are quartering the area, searching for any visual or electronic traces of him.”

“How the hell could they miss him?” Batman burst out.

“Jesus, it’s not like we don’t know where we lost contact on him.”

The Marine Corps colonel stiffened. “I don’t know, Admiral. That’s a question Major Hammersmith will have to answer for us, when we find him. When, not if.” The Marine’s tone of voice brooked no disagreement. “The admiral will recall that there are seven MiG-29s in the immediate vicinity. The Cubans are in targeting mode, so my fighters are having to cover the SAR assets and keep the MiGs off the slow-flyers. The seas aren’t helping any, either.”

“Just find him. Colonel,” Batman said wearily. “We’ll sort out what happened later. Right now, all that matters is we have a man in the water and we don’t know where he is.”

The admiral took a deep breath and turned to his chief of staff.

“What’s next on the agenda?”

The chief of staff pointed at Bird Dog. “Preliminary CONOPS-contact of operations for integrating the Arsenal ship into battle group operations against Cuba under the current scenario. Arsenal is too new to be covered in the standard scenario. Until we have Major Hammersmith back on board and air superiority established, we need to consider a full range of options.”

Batman nodded. As distasteful as it was, the tactical situation demanded that he and his staff put aside their worry over one pilot in the water to focus on the big picture.

If the MiGs kept swarming, odds were that Washington would feel obliged to execute one of the contingency plans developed for this area. It was up to him to make sure the carrier battle group used every asset as effectively as possible, and that included the USS Arsenal. “Go ahead.”

Bird Dog stood and moved to the podium, gesturing at the enlisted technician manning the computer at the back of the room as he did. His entire presentation was integrated with intricate graphs and charts, a briefing skill he’d been especially adept at at the War College. Not that anyone in this crowd would notice, not with their attention riveted on Thor’s fate. Bird Dog felt a ripple of anger, then pushed it away, ashamed to be considering the impact of Thor’s mishap on his staff work.

After the standard greeting to the admiral and senior officers. Bird Dog said, “All war, of course, is political in nature. All operations here are merely the extension of politics by other means.” He paused, surveying the room, assessing the impact of quoting Clausewitz to officers so senior to him. “With that in mind, our targets against Cuba must be carefully chosen in order to maximize American national security objectives.” He clicked the mouse in his hand, flashing a detailed topographical map of Cuba onto the screen. “Indeed, given the delicate issues at stake, I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a precise list of target locations and the estimated impact on Cuban national strategy for Joint Chiefs of Staff approval. I’ve also detailed areas that we must avoid, where the danger of collateral damage is too great.

Here, for instance.” He flashed his laser pointer up on the slide, privately pleased at the professional look it gave his presentation.

“This is the central medical complex on the base. Three buildings to the west is the Cuban command post. We must insure that” “Didn’t they teach you anything at War College?” Batman said coldly.

“Sir?” Bird Dog’s confidence fled.

“We’ve had plenty of experience with detailed input on targeting objectives with political purposes in mind. In fact, as a War College graduate, you ought to know that. The individual targeteering and weaponeering management of that conflict significantly prolonged the entire war. Additionally, it led to tragic results.” Batman’s voice took on a somber note as he remembered how many classmates and friends he’d lost in bombing runs supposedly targeting truck farms. “Targeting must be a military function, first and foremost. Yes,” he continued, waving aside Bird Dog’s attempt to comment, “whether or not we enter into conflict is a political decision, I’ll grant you that. But micromanagement of targets will lose this conflict faster than anything we can dream up on this ship.”

“Admiral, if I could just,” Bird Dog began desperately, seeing his newfound career as a staff officer slip away.

“No, I don’t think so.” Batman shoved his chair away from the table and stood. “I understand what you’re trying to do, but you have to take the War College with a grain of salt. Out here, mister, your job is to keep pilots from going into the water for no reason and to no military advantage.

Try again and make sure you understand the difference between using assets to achieve a desired result and muddling about in decisions way above your pay grade.”

Batman looked around the room slowly, catching each officer’s eyes.

“All of you keep that in mind. This briefing is over.” Batman strode quickly to the door of his private cabin as the other officers scrambled to their feet in belated courtesy.

As the admiral’s cabin door slammed shut, the chief of staff turned to Bird Dog and regarded him gravely. “In my office in five minutes.”

Senator Williams, the junior senator from Virginia, shook his head gravely. “Keith, you can’t live in a vacuum. What happens down to the south has a big impact on operations.”

He glanced across the table to see if the admiral was paying attention, then he turned his attention to his meal. “People are starting to talk the wrong people.”

Admiral Keith Loggins, deputy AIRPAC, gazed down at his Cobb salad in disgust. “The hard-boiled eggs aren’t done all the way through. I hate it when they do that.”

“Pay attention, damn it, I’m trying to help you earn that next star.”

Senator Williams’s voice was viciously sharp.

“I am paying attention. Can’t I do two things at once?

Besides, the idea of using an aviation mishap for political advantage turns my stomach.”

Senator Williams sighed and pushed his plate away. “You didn’t tell those pilots to get loaded on testosterone and do stupid stunts with those aircraft, did you?”

“Of course not. We didn’t shoot down the civilian bird, and they’re not playing Romper Room out there.” Admiral Loggins pointed his fork at the senator. “That’s one thing you people have never understood.

We’re in a dangerous business out there, and there’s bound to be mishaps. There’s no way to prevent them.”

“Reality makes damned poor politics. Listen, Keith, you ought to know that by now. Everything has a slant to it, a twist, an angle. These F-14s of yours and Hornets that keep falling out of the airwell, the taxpayers start wondering what their tax dollars are going for. The average Joe, the one who gets out and votes, starts asking me why he can’t buy a new car and we can afford to replace your toys. It’s a problem.”

“But not mine.”

“Not yet.” Senator Williams motioned to the steward.

“You got any of that pecan pie from yesterday left?”

“What do you mean, not yet?” Admiral Loggins said uneasily. With the selection board for vice admiral meeting in only two months, this just might make a difference. “I wasn’t at sea on that carrier; I wasn’t commanding that squadron. I took my turn in the basket, and I survived that tour. They can’t hold me responsible for those mishaps.”

“We most certainly can,” the senator replied as he watched the steward walk away.

Admiral Loggins noted the shift in pronouns with growing apprehension.

“Hey, wait a minute….”

Senator Williams returned the gaze of the senior officer.

“I work for the people, Keith. And the sooner you learn that, the better.”

Damn it, I wish he would stop calling me Keith. Nobody in this building gets away with that. “Just what do you mean?”

“Just what I said. You’re deputy AIRPAC people are starting to wonder why you’re not doing something about this.”

“Like what? Fly every flight myself? I spent twenty years in the cockpit and I never had a mishap.”

“Like do something for God’s sake, Keith, exert a little leadership.”

The senator quit talking as the steward approached bearing his pie. He waited until the white-jacketed mess man had set the plate down and carefully repositioned the fork nearby. As the steward left. Senator Williams continued. “The Navy’s gone through this spate of accidents before. You usually shut down operations for a while and try to figure out why, right? A safety stand-down?”

“When we can. But Jefferson’s in the middle of operations down off Cuba. I don’t have to tell you what’s going on there.”

“And what else is near Cuba?” the senator pressed.

“Damn it, don’t you see what this means? It’s a golden opportunity you piss this one away and you’ll not get another one like it anytime soon.”

“The Arsenal ship?”

“Oh, the light finally goes on,” the senator said sarcastically. “The one project you and I have been working on for a year and a half now, and you finally think of it. Nice. I like a team player, Keith.”

“Quit calling me Keith,” the admiral said, his temper flaring suddenly.

A cold, still silence settled on the table. The senator carefully and meticulously placed his fork down on the tablecloth. “Fine. Admiral, then.” The venom in his gaze left no doubt about his opinion of the formality. “Well, Admiral, let me just recap the situation for you, if I may, sir. In case you don’t realize it, a large part of your future is riding on the successful performance of that Arsenal ship.”

“I’m an aviator.” The statement was almost an anguished cry.

“Besides, you’re the one who” “I’m the one who what?” the senator snapped. “Helped you get that second star? Shoved your nomination and promotion through committee? Made sure nobody asked any nasty little Tail hook questions? That guy?”

Admiral Loggins suddenly realized how far he’d gone over the line.

Everything Senator Williams had said was true the politician had been a major influence on the admiral’s career. “Look, I didn’t mean anything by that. And come on, we’ve known each other too longI was out of line. Call me Keith.”

The senator leaned back in his chair and assessed the man opposite him with a cold stare. “Make up your mind. Which side of the fence are you on?”

“I want what’s best for the Navy. I’ve always said that.”

The senator sighed. “And we agreed when we started this that the Arsenal was what was best for the Navy. A lightweight, easily built ship packed to the gills with every kind of advanced weaponry and with a skeleton crew on board. Hook up the electronics that allow for remote control of the firing, and you’ve got a perfect political platform.”

The senator’s voice was low and urgent. “At least that’s what you told my committee when you were testifying as a member of the research and development team. You remember? It was your first political move, your maiden appearance in front of the Senate.”

“I remember,” the admiral said gruffly. And a pleasant experience it definitely had not been. Yet, despite an extensive grilling by the senators, who understood so little about the military, the project had gotten their blessing. Ten Arsenal ships were to be built in the next three years, and Admiral Loggins’s name and reputation were firmly riding on each one.

“This is what you do,” the senator said, speaking quickly and quietly.

“Things are going to get worse in Cuba real soonno, don’t ask me how I know. I just do.” He grinned.

“As you would, if you paid any attention to your fiancee.”

“Pamela?” the admiral said, confused by the sudden change of subject.

“What’s she got to do with this?”

“Everything and nothing.”

Admiral Loggins frowned. Eight months ago, he’d finally screwed up his nerve and asked the luscious Pamela Drake for a date. They had quickly established that they had more in common than either had thought.

Loggins found her sharp, analytical mind refreshing, and Pamela had never been shy about sharing her political acumen with him. It had been through her connections that he’d met Senator Williams, as well as a host of other powerful men and women in both the House and the Senate. Suddenly, another star on his collar was looking a whole lot more probable.

For her part, Pamela seemed to appreciate the insights he sometimes gave her into military affairs. She’d told him more than once that he helped her convey a more balanced picture of the military to her viewers.

On a more personal level, they were equally compatible.

Last month, he’d finally asked her to marry him, and she’d accepted.

Now if she would only stay in the country long enough for them to finalize the plans.

“What do you suggest I do?” the admiral asked, pushing aside the thoughts of his fiancee to concentrate on the senator. Pamela had warned him several times that Williams had the power to make him or to break him.

The senator sighed. “Let me spell it out for you. As deputy AIRPAC, you’re concerned about pilot safety. And about the F-14 Tomcats some of those airframes are getting old. You decide to call a safety stand-down and major responsibility for any strike prosecution shifts to the USS Arsenal. Hell, you can even tell that admiral of yours to shift his flag to her. That would be even better.”

“And the USS Arsenal gets to be the hero of the Cuban confrontation,” the admiral said. “I don’t know. You’re talking about a major shift in policy, pulling our carrier off the front lines.”

The senator’s voice was suddenly harsh and vicious.

“You won’t think so when I get that pilot’s grieving widow plastered across every major network, complaining about how the Navy’s not taking care of its people. How will that look?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.” The senator began attacking his pie, glancing up only once to assess the impact of his statement on the admiral. “Do it, Keith.”

“What’s in it for you?” the admiral asked suspiciously.

“Subcontracts,” the senator said promptly. “Every small business in my state is going to have a piece of this.

Building them at Newport News was a masterstroke.”

I don’t like this man. Admiral Loggins thought suddenly.

Don’t like him, don’t trust him. Even if what he’s saying makes sense.

But a safety stand-down isn’t that off an idea.

It’s what we might do anyway.

“I’ll think about it,” the admiral said finally. “No promises.”

“Think fast, Keith,” the senator said, his voice almost a whisper.

“There are plenty of admirals where you came from.”

Batman’s face was colder than Bird Dog had ever seen it before. Something savage lurked just under the surface of the admiral’s dark brown eyes, the harsh, demanding look.

“Any idea why he called the meeting?” Bird Dog whispered to Lab Rat.

The intelligence officer shook his head and motioned for the pilot to keep quiet.

“The chief of staff is passing around a message I want each one of you to see. You’ll notice it’s marked P4a ‘personal for’ message for me from AIRPAC. I think once you read the message, you’ll get the gist of it.” Batman paused, watching twenty sets of eyes glance quickly at the text of the message. “This is bullshit.”

“A safety stand-down?” Bird Dog blurted out. “Sure, we’ve had some mishaps, but” An angry glare from the ACOS Ops assistant chief of staff for operations made him break off in mid-sentence. Batman’s eyes pinned him to his chair.

“That’s exactly what it i san order to stand down.

Evidently, AIRPAC is concerned about the way I’m leading this battle group and decided to give me rudder orders. It doesn’t set too damned well with me, I can tell you that.”

The admiral sighed. “But, of course, we’ll comply. There’s no choice in the matter.”

Lab Rat cleared his throat pointedly. The admiral glanced across the table at him. “You have something to say. Commander?” the admiral asked.

“Yes, Admiral. I understand the need for safety first, but things in Cuba are going to get a lot worse before they get better.” The intelligence officer shook his head. “I don’t understand why Washington would stand down an entire battle group for at least one day of training in the middle of this. Too many desk drivers, if you ask me.” Lab Rat flushed as he belatedly remembered how many Washington assignments the admiral had under his belt.

“He suggests I shift my flag to the Arsenal ship. Out of the question, of course,” Batman continued as if the intelligence officer hadn’t spoken. “No space, and not enough communications-band width.” An odd smile crossed his face momentarily, replaced immediately by the anger churning under the surface. “Sometimes I think a battle group runs more on antennas than it does on aviation fuel.

Nevertheless, effective immediately, every aircraft in this squadron is grounded. No logistics flights, no mail runs, nothing. And tomorrow we start bright and fresh with a safety stand-down. I want to see those NATOPS manuals in every aviator’s hand for at least eight hours tomorrow. If Admiral Loggins thinks this will keep people from getting killed, then I’ll go along with it.”

The admiral surveyed the room. Apparently satisfied with the response he saw in every officer’s face, he turned a cold glare on Bird Dog.

“We’ve also been directed to develop a targeting list for D.C. that will maximize the use of the USS Arsenal. There’s some thought back there that the president may wish to exploit Arsenal’s remote control capabilities to allow more direct control over any potential conflict.”

Bird Dog felt a surge of vindication. Maybe his own admiral didn’t agree with him, but evidently somebody in D.C. saw the true potential of the Arsenal ships. Hell, with them in the battle group, a number of logistic and resupply problems were solved. An Arsenal ship carried more missile sand of more different kinds than any three surface ships combined. And if the admiral didn’t see that, then thank God somebody in D.C. did.

“Admiral, I” Bird Dog broke off suddenly, remembering the unpleasant session he’d had with the chief of staff earlier. COS had made it plain that what the admiral expected was results, not some esoteric bullshit theorizing from a junior officer with too much education and not enough experience to make use of it.

“You have something on your mind. Bird Dog?” Batman asked softly, warning in his voice. “More wisdom from Clausewitz to share with me?”

“No, Admiral, it’s just that sir, with the Arsenal ships,” Bird Dog plunged on, trying to feel the raw confidence he always felt in the air, “maybe part of our problem is simplified. This conflict with Cuba-it’s a political issue, not a military one. If JCS-hell, even the president does the actual launch planning and weapons firing, doesn’t that take us off the hook for some of this?”

Batman stood, his face livid. “Ask Major Hammersmith if this is a political problem.” He strode out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

COS glared at Bird Dog again. “You just don’t listen, do you?”

50 Miles North of Cuba Thor was riding low in the water, his body sprawled out across the barely inflated flight suit, his face just out of the water. After six hours of trying to catch the life raft, he’d given up. He was floating on his back, the hard summer sun beating down on it as it had earlier on his front. Saltwater licked at the cuts on his face and body, the sting now fading below the level of perception.

The sea was still boisterous, throwing him up and down in a sickening seesaw over broad, flat roller snot the angry lashing of a storm at sea, but more like the exuberant playfulness of a child much larger than its peers.

He heard it before he saw it, a harsh, mechanical pounding at odds with the natural sounds of the wind and the waves. He tried to prop himself up, plunging his hands deep into the sinking flight suit, straining to see over the swells. A ship, it had to be. For a moment, he felt an irrational surge of hope that it was one of the American destroyers, detached from the battle group. It was possible, wasn’t it? Surely they’d been looking for him for at least twenty-four hours.

Even as he thought it, he realized it couldn’t be. A destroyer close enough to hear would have been easily visible, even for a man plunging from trough to crest over the waves.

A smaller boat, then any boat, he didn’t care. Anything to get out of the ocean. In the last four hours, he’d seen a dorsal fin pop up at irregular intervals in the surrounding water. Once, he’d thought he’d felt something brushing at his leg, and it was only by the most forceful act of will that he had not panicked.

One moment the sea was empty, the next he had company. The fishing boat was hardly impressive by any standards, but to Thor it was the most wonderful sight in the world. The hull had been white once, although it had faded to some colorless shade speckled by seagull droppings and scars. The superstructure looked rickety, as though it were shifting back and forth independently of the hull. Two large booms trailed out from behind, supports for the massive fishing nets the boat would be dragging behind it.

“Hey! Hey, over here!” Thor raised himself as far out of the water as he could and started waving his arms frantically, pumping his legs to lift his upper torso out of the water. Damn the sharks if he didn’t get this boat’s attention, in another couple of days it wouldn’t matter.

At first he thought they hadn’t seen him. The boat continued on a steady course, the noise of its diesel engines growing louder. Thor sucked air into his lungs, took another deep breath, and then screamed with all of his might, “Over here!”

Some vagary of the wind picked up his words and wafted them over to the fishing boat Just before he slid down into another trough, Thor saw one of the men look up sharply, then approach the rail to scan the ocean in his direction. The seconds before he slid up to the top of another wave were the longest ones of his life.

When the boat came into view again, he saw that it had changed course.

Its silhouette had shortened and narrowed, indicating that it was now bow-on to him. Thor was too dehydrated to cry, but he’d never felt more like it in his life.

Five minutes later he was on the deck of the fishing boat staring into four brown, impassive faces and wishing he had taken Spanish in high school instead of Latin.

“Muy interesante,” Santana murmured. He tapped a message with his finger, then glanced across the room at his companion. Libyan Colonel Kaliff Mendiria showed no reaction. “It could be that this is the final element of our plan.

God flies, does he not?” Santana said, intentionally goading the devout Muslim.

Tall, too tall for a Cuban, reaching almost six feet in height, Mendiria was a peculiar dusky color. Brown without looking Cuban, dark without looking black Santana tried to place the coloration and drew a blank.

The Libyan’s hair was short and dark, straight from the looks of it, and clipped close to his head. A few gray patches showed through in odd spots on his head. Not gray from aging, but the peculiar patterning of hair growing back in after a war injury. The Libyan’s face was pockmarked, dominated by a massive nose slightly off center, and a too-full lower lip. The eyes were a startling yellow-green, almost luminescent under anything other than bright sunlight.

The skin around Mendiria’s mouth whitened slightly as his muscles clenched. “As Allah wills,” he said sharply. “It does not matter what happens with this pilot. Our plans are already in place.”

“But don’t you see?” Santana pressed. “The Americans have an obsessively sentimental attachment to their military personnel.

Remember the forces that were downed during their Desert Storm fiasco?

Their pictures were in every newspaper, on every television station for hours on end.

They will be very interested in the fate of this one pilot.”

Mendiria snorted. “If they find out you have him. If you had a proper security program in place, that would not be possible. Now, however, your headquarters leaks like a sieve.”

Santana bolted to his feet. “A sieve that Libya has found more than useful in the past,” he thundered. “Remember, my friend, it was your country who approached us.”

“As though you could have survived without the Soviet money,” Mendiria responded sharply. “Look around you.

Every bit of this building and most of your people were bought and paid for. After centuries of sucking the Soviet’s tit, you needed us.

Needed us more than we needed you.

Without us, you have two choices: anarchy under your good friend Leyta’s leadership or lapdog of the Americans.”

“Bah! Having Libyan troops on Cuba poses more risk to us than it does to you. And the stupid fools on that fishing boat if he heard them talking, there’s every chance that he knows they’re not all Cubans.”

Mendiria raised a lazy hand at the agitated Cuban. “It matters not.

Your next shipment of farm equipment is on schedule, just as we planned.”

“And the only crops it will ever grow are graveyards,” Santana said.

He fingered the sling bolstering his right arm, a reminder of the ejection that had saved his life. It was time America took Cuba just a bit more seriously. “By bringing those missiles to bear on the U.S. just eighty miles away, we can force the President to lift the trade embargoes that now cripple us. With a fair opportunity to sell our agricultural and crop products, Cuba will enter the next century as a great island nation.” He saw the look of amusement on Mendiria’s face.

“Do not laugh,” he said, pointing one finger at the Libyan. “England ruled almost half of the known world at one time. A nation not so much larger than Cuba ruled your own people, as a matter of fact. Have you forgotten so soon how powerful an island nation can be, protected from enemies by the sea?”

“My people will not be the problem,” the Libyan said softly, cold rage growing in his eyes. “But you you little fool. At least next time consult me before you do something rash. Like shooting down any American planes.”

“That was not rash. That was merely payback.” Santana smiled. “And more will follow before I’m satisfied.”