Arsenal

FIVE

“You’re holding our pilot.” Ambassador Wexler’s voice was calm and level, deadly. She held the Cuban ambassador’s gaze, forcing him to meet her eyes.

The man spread his hands apart, palm up, and shrugged lightly. “So you say, Madame Ambassador. You have become uncharacteristically boring on this point. Yet you have no evidence. Do you? Just your bald assertion that Cuba is somehow responsible for this pilot.” He half turned away from her and gestured to the stack of messages on his desk.

“I would know, would I not?”

“We have sources, too,” she replied levelly. “I know you have him.”

The satellite imagery she’d seen earlier that morning was conclusive.

“And you do, too. Let’s quit playing games with each other.” Without waiting for him to offer, she took a seat on the large leather couch dominating one end of the Cuban ambassador’s office. “Tell me why you’re doing this.”

He hesitated for a moment, then followed her to the small seating area.

He chose an armchair at right angles to the couch and lowered himself into it slowly. “I will play your game. For the sake of argument, just why would we want to keep your downed pilot from you? I assume you do have a theory, one no doubt involving a massive conspiracy by my small nation.” He eyed her sardonically.

Ambassador Wexler leaned forward. “This is your third strike. First, downing the civilian aircraft. Second, holding our downed pilot. And third” She paused and gazed at him steadily, looking for any reaction.

“I think you know what number three is.”

He shrugged. “We are in disagreement as to one and two as well. How can I read your mind and know what fantasy you have contrived as reason number three?”

“I think you know all too well,” she answered softly, steel underlying the smooth words. “And it costs nothing for me to confirm what you already know. In a word no, make that two words. Libya. And weapons.”

She leaned back, a grimly satisfied expression on her face.

The Cuban ambassador held the pleasant, charming expression on his face at some cost to him. He could feel the muscles quiver, the mouth threaten to twitch into a scowl. It was just the confirmation she was looking for, he was certain. If, in fact, she needed it at all.

“What would you like me to say?”

“Nothing. At least then you won’t lie to me.” She eyed him sternly.

“What Cuba does as a sovereign nation is her own business. But you know better than to push us too far.

And you have this time. That pilot had better be back in American hands by the end of the day or you’ll suffer the consequences.”

“A threat?” he snapped.

She paced slowly across to the door, paused with her hand on the knob, and turned back to him. “Consider it a promise.”

“Release me now.” Thor kicked at the man holding his arms behind him. “Damn it, you have got no grounds to” “We can do anything we feel necessary.” The guard easily evaded Thor’s foot and jabbed him sharply in the kidneys with the muzzle of his pistol. “You are no longer in the United States, my friend, but on our soil.”

“We’re not at war!” Thor wheeled around to face Santana. Thirty-six hours of kick-floating in the warm ocean, no food, no sleep the movement made him dizzy. But he held on to consciousness, straining to look solid and steady on his feet.

Santana regarded him blandly. “Oh, indeed we are.

You’re to be tried for war crimes, sir on behalf of the nation that downed an innocent aircraft in our airspace and then violated our no-fly zone.”

“You shot those aircraft down, not us. And you damned well know it.

And as for this supposed no-fly zone, what makes you think your nation has the right to cordon off international airspace unilaterally?”

Santana shrugged. “The rest of the world believes otherwise. As for the exclusion zone, you should understand that well enough America is the first to declare one in any part of the world. Iraq and Bosnia are just the most recent examples. I suggest you cooperate fully with my friends when they ask you question sit may help to mitigate your sentence after your trial.”

Two of the men standing against the wall stepped forward. The first one slammed his fist into Thor’s gut, then brought his knee up to smash the pilot’s face as he doubled over. Thor hit the deck, bleeding.

The second stranger muttered a questioning comment to the first. Even through the pain, Thor heard enough to cause his balls to contract.

He may not have taken Spanish in school, but Latin had at least given him a familiarity with some of the root words, and what they were speaking was certainly not Spanish or any other Romance language. He stared up at the two men, now more afraid than he’d been when the first shark had brushed up against him in the warm ocean.

“And that concludes this discussion of rough sea ditching procedures. Are there any questions?” The VF-95 safety officer looked around the room inquiringly. Not an aviator twitched.

The safety officer sighed and shook his head. Not that he’d expected any. Still, it would have been nice to be certain they’d been paying attention. Deep in his heart, he knew exactly what they were thinking the same thing he thought at that age. Invincible, invulnerable no way they’d ever need to review rough weather ditching procedures, not a chance. Maybe the guy in the next seat. But not me.

He supposed it took turning thirty and putting that first oak leaf on the collar to convince a pilot that the unthinkable could happen to him.

“Okay, let’s break for chow. We’ll reconvene in the Ready Room at thirteen hundred. At that time, I’ll give the quarterly NATOPS quiz.

Those of you who are current have to take it, too,” he added quickly as the surly muttering arose from the back row. “That’s part of safety stand-down.”

He watched from the podium as the aviators filed out, some in shipboard washed cotton khakis, others in faded flight suits. He heard the comments drift toward the front of the room.

“Goddamn Marines. If they could just …”

“I don’t know why we need to …”

“And then she wrapped her legs around …”

He placed the pointer carefully on the narrow lip at the edge of the podium. Well, there was nothing that said they had to be enthusiastic about the safety stand-down.

If truth be told, he wasn’t so wild about the idea himself.

Parking the world’s finest naval aviators in a classroom all right, a Ready Room, but a classroom for this day while a pilot was missing at sea and tensions boiled to the south rankled all of them. Still, AIRPAC supposedly knew best.

With the spate of recent mishaps and incidents, he could understand a renewed emphasis on safety. But a stand down? Now, with so much unexplained in the area? He shook his head again, and scowled. The only aircraft airborne right now were the SAR helos still searching for the downed Marine pilot.

Like his fellow aviators, there was no requirement he like the safety stand-down just that he do it. He followed the last aviator out of the Ready Room and headed for chow.

“All right, what have we got?” Batman said as he strode into the conference room. “I want some answers, people.”

The admiral sat down in his usual spot halfway down the table and glared at Commander Busby, who was standing in front of the room. Lab Rat met his gaze steadily. It was always like this, admirals demanding immediate answers and definitive explanations for every scenario. In an ideal world. Intelligence would be perfect and there would be no surprises.

But this world was far from ideal. Lab Rat clicked the mouse in his hand, flashing the first slide up on the screen.

He saw the admiral shift impatiently in his seat as a topographical map of Cuba lit the front of the room. Lab Rat hastily punched the button again, cycling on to the next slide.

“Let me cut to the chase. Admiral.” Lab Rat flicked the laser pointer on and centered the small red dot over the western tip of Cuba. “We have indications that Major Hammersmith is being held here.

Additionally, I have satellite imagery that indicates the Cubans are standing up a new weapons system, probably longrange offensive land attack missiles.” Lab Rat paused, guiltily enjoying the sudden sharp intakes of breath he heard around the room.

The admiral shook his head from side to side. “You don’t fuck around when you say cut to the chase, do you?” he said, surprisingly mildly.

“Okay, Lab Rat, go ahead and start the backing and filling I know is going to come. You intelligence types never make absolute pronouncements, do you?”

Lab Rat resisted the impulse to gloat. “We do when we can. Admiral.

As of thirty minutes ago, this was the situation.” He punched the clicker again, flashing the next slide up on the screen.

It was overhead imagery, a highly detailed and accurate photograph of the area produced by one of the U.S. national assets a satellite.

Everyone in the room, even those who had seen such imagery before, leaned forward almost involuntarily. The clarity, the detail exceptional.

The photograph was in black and white. Centered in the rectangle was a man in an American flight suit surrounded by a squad of six armed Cuban army guards. They were walking toward a small cinderblock building.

The American had his face turned up toward the sky, and was being jabbed in the kidneys by the rearmost guard.

“Thor appears to have remembered his SERE lessons well,” Lab Rat said neutrally. Every pilot attended the Survival, Evasion, Rescue, and Escape course before being assigned to a carrier. “He was looking up at the sky at every opportunity. The Cubans seemed to know what he was doing, too they nailed him every time. We’ve got six good photos of his upturned cherubic little face, this one being the best of the lot.

It’s him, no doubt.”

Batman studied the photo for a moment before nodding sharply.

“Concur.

So we know he’s alive and we know they’ve got him. Now tell me about these weapons.”

“Here.” The next slide was just as detailed, but not as immediately self-evident. Lab Rat traced around three rectangular structures on the screen. “For those of you who are familiar with the short-range Soviet land attack missile systems, you’ll recognize this launcher.

It’s designed to handle either conventional or nuclear weapons. The satellite pictures picked it up first, and the existence of such weapons has been confirmed by HUMINT-human intelligence.

Spies and informers, to give them their common name.” Lab Rat paused to let them absorb the implications. “Let me remind you that all of this information is classified ‘top secret.” Given the political instability in Cuba, with the fighting between factions over control and the presence of military advisors from Libya, we have warnings and indications that Cuba may be advocating the nuclear option.”

“Nuclear?” Batman’s tone of voice left no doubt as to the depth of his concern. “Is that a probability, or just a possibility based on capabilities?”

“A strong probability, unfortunately. While I can’t confirm that there are nuclear weapons inside Cuba, examination of two freighters making port in the United States immediately after Cuba indicates small traces of radioactivity. The Coast Guard picked them up after they became suspicious during a routine drug search. Evidently they saw something they didn’t like and ordered a full detention and search. After the first click on their Geiger counter, they called in NEST the Nuclear Emergency Services Team.

They confirmed that something radioactive has been in that container within the last thirty days. Unfortunately, they can’t tell us exactly what. But the levels indicate” Lab Rat spread his hands open before him” that there’s a strong possibility it was weapons-grade material.”

Batman turned pale. “And I thought we’d solved this forever with the Cuban Missile Crisis,” he said wonderingly. He shook his head as though to clear his thoughts. “So we can’t be certain, but that evidence combined with the missile launchers gives me a really rotten feeling in the gut.”

The room was deadly silent. Not an officer moved, and some barely seemed to breathe. Lab Rat glanced around the room, noting the pale, shaken faces. He understood completely-he’d felt that way himself not an hour before when the first satellite imagery had been faxed into the highly classified CVIC. He felt an odd, incongruous sense of relief.

It was nice not to be the only one who knew.

“I think I’d better talk to SOUTHCOM right away,” Batman said slowly.

He stood up, dismissing the rest of the staff with a gesture. “Pull up the contingency plans. All of them, even Bird Dog’s. Be ready. This is a surprise, but it’s not one we can’t handle. I want full reports from all departments in thirty minutes.” He turned and walked rapidly toward the door leading to his cabin.

“A rotten feeling in my gut,” Lab Rat echoed slowly. He walked to the back of the room and took the floppy disk from the technician who’d been operating the computer.

“Sir?” The young enlisted man’s voice shook slightly.

“What does it mean? Do they really have nukes?”

Lab Rat clapped the man on the shoulder and forced a smile onto his face. “I don’t know, Benson. But whatever they’ve got, we’ve got a cure for it. There’s not a damned thing they could possibly have that could get through the Jefferson battle group not a damned thing.

Remember, if they start pulling any shit on us, we can turn the whole island into glass.”

The man looked slightly less worried. “That’s right, they can’t get past Jefferson.” He paused for a moment, then said, “But what about that major there? The Marine?”

And that, Lab Rat thought, was the two million dollar question. What about Thor?

The angry chatter of gunfire cut through the dull roar of wind across the flight deck. Lieutenant Commander Brandon Sikes, officer in charge of the USS Jefferson SEAL detachment, paused at the hatch leading out onto the hot tarmac and surveyed the scene. The forward portion of the deck was crowded with aircraft, wings-folded Tomcats nose to-nose with similarly configured Hornets, the bulkier E2C Hawkeyes taking up the space just aft of the island.

Helicopters with their rotors folded like broken mimosa leaves edged the deck, with the exception of two ready helos positioned slightly behind the rest of the pack.

Even with the hangar bay below crowded with aircraft, it was an impressive display of weaponry and force. Almost a football field away, a small group of men clad in tattered khaki shorts and faded brown T-shirts stood in a line facing aft. Even from here, he could make out the outlines of the different types of weapons they carried45s, M16s, and AK-47s. Had they not been U.S. SEALs his men he would have been worried.

Sikes trotted down the tarmac. The safety observer spotted him immediately, and with a sharp motion terminated the exercise. He could hear the men grumbling good-naturedly, a sound that faded away immediately as they saw his face.

“What’s up. Skipper?” Senior Chief Petty Officer Manuel Huerta asked.

He motioned toward the broad wake behind the ship with his free hand, carefully keeping the AK-47 in his other hand pointed aft. “A no-fly day figured we’d get in some weapons practice. Never can have too much.”

Sikes drew to a halt. “You may have a chance sooner than you think.

Quick, huddle time. I need some fast thoughts.”

He motioned for the men to close around him.

Within the elite SEAL community, rank made little difference when it came to planning an operation. Even the most junior man might have some valuable insight to contribute. He looked around the circle of faces like a quarterback, noting the keen interest on each one of them.

A good team hell, maybe the best team. His team.

“Here’s what’s going down.” He briefly outlined the strategic scenario, then settled into the business of discussing tactics. “As I see it, there are two main objectives. First, we find our man. Get him out if we can. Second, we disable the weapons systems.” He saw a few frowns across faces. “I know it may not be reasonable, particularly if they’ve got nuclear weapons on there. Still, I want to plan for it. Failing that, we can at least bring back the admiral some hard info on them. We’ve got the gear?”

“Sure, we’ve got everything we need. Radiac equipment, the new version fits in the palm of your hand, it does.”

The man who’d spoken smiled. “I’ve been wanting an opportunity to field-test them.”

“You’ve got it. Any thoughts on how to get the pilot back?”

“It will depend on where he’s being held,” said Felipe Garcia, a petty officer second class and SEAL for three years.

“Garcia, you may be the whole key to this.” Sikes studied the man carefully. He was shorter than most, a fact Sikes noted simply for its reference value. In the SEALs, size made no difference. He’d had his own ass kicked by men far smaller than Garcia. “You grew up in Havana, didn’t you?”

Garcia nodded. “And I’ve been back there since then.

Five times in the last two years. To different parts of the island.”

Sikes nodded sharply. Given the diverse and dangerous nature of the SEALs’ normal missions, he had a good idea of what Garcia might have been doing in Cuba. Not that he’d ask he wouldn’t have to. Only Garcia knew how highly classified his mission had been, and what details he could release to his fellow SEALs. Even if Garcia couldn’t give them a blow-by-blow account of his mission, he’d factor every available detail into the planning of this one.

“Good. I expect you to vet every step of this.” Sikes looked around the circle again. “How do we get in?

Helicopter and HALO would be my preference,” he said, referring to a high-altitude low-opening parachute drop.

“But that’s not going to be practical, not with those radars ringing the island.”

“Small boats might be better, but still not entirely safe,” Garcia said thoughtfully. “The whole littoral area is patrolled regularly by Cuban gunboats. We might be able to outrun them, but there’s a good chance we would be detected.”

“How much of a chance?” Sikes pressed.

“Maybe fifty-fifty.” Garcia shrugged. “I’ve had worse odds.” He looked up and met his skipper’s eyes. “A submarine and lockout in an SD Va swimmer delivery vehicle is better.”

Without asking, Sikes knew that was exactly how Garcia had gotten in last time. It made sense, too. The few remaining U.S. diesel submarines would be particularly valuable for this mission. Quiet and undetectable while operating under battery, it carried a docking station bolted down onto the conning tower that contained the small swimmer delivery vehicles favored for team insertion in an operation such as this. “That would be my preference, but I don’t know if we have time to get one down here. Any other thoughts?”

“We could swim.” The SEAL who suggested it looked displeased. “I don’t favor it, though.”

Sikes shook his head. “Me neither. Sure, we could do it, but we’d be dragging ass when we got ashore.” He looked at the men’s faces and saw them harden. “Not that we couldn’t do it,” he added hastily. “It’s an option. But not the best one.”

“Helicopter or a boat, then,” Garcia mused. He shrugged again, a peculiarly Latino gesture of resignation. Then his face brightened.

“Our odds go way up if we use the Army’s Stealth helos. Think we could get the carrier to send us back to Miami and deploy from there?”

“No doubt. Even on a no-fly day, we ought to be able to arrange that sort of transportation.” Sikes grinned, a wolfish expression crossing his face. “I surely do love those Special Forces helicopters.” The other men nodded.

“I don’t think so,” Huerta said, speaking for the first time.

‘Too much radar, even with Stealth technology.” He shook his head.

“We go in with what we’re best at small boats, then swimming. Less chance of a casual observer seeing us that way, too. Go with our strengths.”

A grizzled veteran, ancient at me age of thirty-five, Huerta was still in superb physical condition. Sikes had watched him outrun, outswim, and outshoot almost every man in the team. He might be beat occasionally at one of those particular skills, but never in all three categories by the same man. Overall, he was the strongest, most indestructible-looking man Sikes had ever met.

As he looked at Huerta, a familiar feeling of pride flooded him. Don’t ever think about being a SEAL, he told himself.

Not unless you are worthy of commanding men like this.

A quick shorthand discussion of equipment and timing followed, the men thinking as one team and each contributing his own comments on particular capabilities and assets they would need. Less than ten minutes after he’d first walked out on the flight deck, Sikes had his answers. And a plan.

He motioned back toward the ocean. “You kill a whale, you file the environmental impact report. Other than that, shoot the hell out of it.” He made a brief gesture, then turned and trotted back toward the island.

Batman stared at the overhead speaker as he spoke into the handset. The COSMIC circuit was the most secure form of radio communication available on the carrier, and this call from Tombstone was hardly unexpected.

“So you think we’ll be ordered to conduct the strike?”

Batman asked. He ran a hand across his forehead, feeling the deep grooves that the pressures of daily living were cutting into his forehead. Even after commanding a squadron and two tours in D.C nothing had prepared him for the awesome weight that fell on the shoulders of a carrier battle group commander. “Come on. Tombstone, I need some answers.”

Admiral Magruder’s voice sounded tired. “I’ve seen the same pictures you have. If it were my call, you know what my answer would be. Damn the political consequences just get the mission done.”

“But it’s not. It’s not mine, either.” Batman felt the beginnings of a headache start at the base of his neck.

“Jesus, Tombstone, how much of this would we have believed when we were still flying? Back then, we thought the admirals had the easy jobs.”

Tombstone chuckled, his voice thin and reedy over the secured circuit.

Not laughing at you, my friend, laughing with you. At least you’re at sea you could be stuck flying a desk, like I am.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know that. So, how long will it take to get an answer?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Batman could hear the resignation in his friend’s voice.

“Hell of an answer. Tombstone.”

“Sometimes it’s like that. Batman. As soon as I hear from the eight-hundred-pound gorillas, I’ll let you know.”

Batman knew Tombstone was referring to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “But when? I’ve got preparations I need to make out here, you know.”

“Of course I know that,” Tombstone said sharply. “Look, as soon as I hear anything, I’ll let you know. It shouldn’t be long, though. I understand the President’s in conference on the matter right now.”

Batman sighed as he hung up the telephone. The President might be consulting his top political and military experts, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure this one out. Weapons poised on Cuba could have only one target the continental United States. And, when a decision was finally made, it would be up to Batman to walk that thin line between defense and aggression, between preserving the integrity of the United States and provoking war.

The President stared down at the photos strewn around his desk. In his past twenty-five years as a political animal, he’d seen satellite imagery often enough never before, however, in such telling detail.

He leaned back in the custom-built chair, feeling the sinking sensation of resignation. Around him, his staffers and aides fell silent. The President steepled his hands under his chin and thought. Finally, he glanced back at the man standing in front of him. “So it comes down to this? Again?”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid so, Mr. President.”

The President sighed. “Kennedy thought he had the problem licked forever,” he said reflectively. He gestured at the photographs. “We should’ve known better. They won’t stop not really. Even with the fall of the Soviet Union, there will always be power-mongers and terrorists in the world. Whole nations, even.”

The chairman shifted uneasily. “We have some options.”

The President spun his chair around to stare out at the Rose Garden.

“Oh, I’m certain we do. We always do.

There’s not a spot on the world that we haven’t projected out as a terrorist or rogue state and tried to figure out what we should do about it But in the end, what it comes down to is American men and women setting foot on foreign soil, doesn’t it?”

The roses were in full bloom, each bush carefully and lovingly tended by the White House gardener. Some of the plants were decades old, he guessed. There was no garden on earth that got finer care than this collection of roses. “We should take care of other things just as well,” he said out loud. He heard the uneasy scuffle of feet behind him. And now the President is talking to himself. Wonder if that makes them feel any worse as if it could. He spun his chair back around to face the group.

“One of the reasons I was elected,” he said slowly, organizing his thoughts as he went, “was my commitment to a strong defense policy.”

He grimaced, shrugged slightly.

“You all know I’ve seen all ends of this, from the ground up as a young Army officer in Vietnam to the crises I saw as vice president. I know what I’m about to do, more than any President since maybe Eisenhower.

The other military men that have held this post came from some of the more refined fields of warfare submariner, fighter pilot, that sort of thing.” He gestured dismissively. “But it takes an old Army dogface to understand what fighting’s really about. It takes men hell, and women, too, no won the ground, face-to-face.” He finally came to a decision and looked up at the assembled group. “Cuba is a sovereign nation, but this is our part of the world. I won’t have a land strike capability in Cuba-I won’t. And I’m not going to sit in this office and watch the spectacle of an American fighting pilot being dragged through the streets of Cuba and tried for war crimes.” His voice got louder and stronger. “It will not happen on my watch am I absolutely clear about that?”

The chairman seemed to stiffen. New conviction and pride filled his voice. “As you say, Mr. President not on my watch. On our watch, sir.”

The President nodded sharply. “We understand one another. Thank you for coming. General. I’d like to see you again later this afternoon with answers, this time.”

“I’ll have them for you, Mr. President. You can count on that.” The general saluted, executed a smart about-face, and left the room.

“The rest of you, start getting the other pieces of the packages together. I want everything public affairs coordination, a conference call with the governor of Florida …

no, Louisiana and Texas, as well and the rest of the staff immediately available for the next forty-eight hours.”

And that’s all it should take: forty-eight hours.

Aguillar reached out and patted Pamela’s leg lightly above the knee. He let his fingers linger a moment, feeling the smooth silk of the stockings rasp against his well-manicured palm. He trailed his fingers up ever so slightly, lifting them reluctantly away only when she glanced sharply at him. The more he saw of her, the more he thought that the possibilities might be … ah, well, perhaps another time. He sighed, thinking what a waste it was that the woman’s mind could be so firmly fixed on her job. “You are not nervous, I hope?” he inquired politely.

“Of course not,” Pamela said calmly, anger barely edging her tones.

“I’ve been to Cuba before.”

Aguillar chuckled and leaned back in his chair. The aircraft was already taxiing for departure. “Never this Cuba, Miss Drake. And never with a native guide.” A nostalgic look crossed his face.

“There’s nothing like it, nothing in the world.” A strong wave of homesickness shook him, still a surprise after so many years away.

He felt her eyes on his face, studying him, dissecting him in the coldly calculating way he’d seen her operate before.

“Never this Cuba?” she inquired, letting the question trail off to invite response.

“Oh, no, I’m sure you haven’t seen my Cuba. Not the one I grew up in.”

“Under Castro?”

He nodded. “Castro was part of it, but hardly the thing I remember most.” He fixed her with a stern look. “You must remember. Miss Drake, for us, this is normal.”

“Assassinations? Purges? Genocide?”

“That’s not what I remember not what I miss,” he said, surprising himself slightly. For all her brittle prickliness, there was something about Pamela Drake that made him want to talk, to explain to her the sheer luxuriant sensuality of his homeland. The rich, warm nights, the endless beaches, the pure, clean water around her, though the latter would change now, since the advent of heavy industry along the coastline. “It was …” He searched for exactly the right words to convey to her. “Paradise,” he concluded finally.

He saw her doubting look. “Oh, I know what you’ve been told. There’s disease, poverty, and oppressive political regimes but really, remember, we grew up with all that.

There was nothing unusual, nothing abnormal about it. Life went on.

We had families, we had children, and we had …”

Again, words failed him. It seemed impossible to convey to her the simple rhythms of life in Cuba, the feeling of rightness and oneness with nature. And the women ah, the women. He glanced over at her again, contrasting her with Cuban women he’d known. Too many angles, he decided, too many sharpened little edges poking out of her. A classical beauty, yes, yes, every inch of her refined and somehow pure.

But there was none of the raw sensuality he remembered from his island days, none of the exuberant passion for life and making love that he missed perhaps most of all. The American women, so far removed from what was important in life that they were virtually sucked dry of all of the joy of life now that, that joy, was what he missed. “I will show you some places,” he decided suddenly. “Yes, the guerrillas, the freedom fighters you know they’re there and that’s where your story is.”

A small trace of bitterness crept into his voice. “But there is so much more, so much more that Cuba has to offer to America.

There must be cooperation, you see. Not only for our survival, but for America’s as well.”

“And that’s why I decided to come with you,” Pamela said decisively.

“To show the American people both sides of the picture. You claim there’s a difference between your objectives and Leyta’s. Fine, well show it to me. Show me why America should be a friend to Cuba instead of a suspicious neighbor. Show me how much we have in common, where our true future lies. If you can show me, I can show the rest of the world.” She leaned forward, stared past him out the window. “That’s why I came.”

“I know.” He resisted the impulse to reach out and trace his fingers up her thigh, groaned inwardly as he imagined how it would feel to reach the top of the delicate hose. But that’s not why I have you with me.

“From here we will go by seaplane, then by small boat,” he continued, regretfully suppressing the ripple of lust she always caused. “And something else as well despite our differences, Leyta and I cooperate on a number of issues.

His people will be guiding your tour. I believe he may himself be in Cuba at this very moment.”

“Leyta? But why?”

Aguillar shrugged. “You’ve seen most of what I do. I work through existing organizations and channels in Washington. Leyta has other connections.” He frowned for a moment, remembering that his public adversary had even gambled his own brother’s life on an overt mission gambled and lost. “While I disapprove completely of his methods, unfortunately he is the better equipped to show you our homeland. He will be rendezvousing with us off the coast of Cuba. I think you will find his planned tour itinerary most enlightening.”

More interesting than you planned on, my sweet American bitch. If you knew how we are using you, my chances would disappear entirely.

“So this is it?” the President asked. “He gestured at the battle plan drawn on the chalkboard. “Why the Arsenal ship?”

“It’s time for an operational task, Mr. President,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff said calmly. “With the rash of accidents we’ve had on board Jefferson, I’m afraid …” He let his voice trail off delicately.

Vice Admiral Thomas Magruder snorted. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Jefferson and her battle group,” he snapped. “Mr. President, with all due respect to the chairman, that ship is as ready as she’s ever been. She was ready when my nephew Tombstone commanded her, and she’s ready now.” He leaned forward and jabbed angrily in the air with a forefinger. “If you want a strike on Cuba, Jefferson is the best bet. Using anything else is a mistake.”

“The question of assets has already been decided,” the chairman said shortly. He turned to the President and added smoothly, “Subject to your approval, of course, sir.”

The President leaned back in his chair and looked puzzled. “Aircraft carriers have always been the primary platform for force projection,” he said slowly. “I’m not sure why we should deviate now.”

“The Arsenal ship can do the same job at a fraction of the risk,” the chairman pointed out. “Totally independent, capable of putting massive amounts of ordnance onshore smart weapons, Mr. President, specifically tailored to reach each target we want, without any collateral damage.

Without any collateral damage. More importantly, every step of the battle can be controlled personally by you. The ability to order the attack while you’re still talking to the Cubans on the telephone gives you a superb bargaining position.”

The President glanced up at him sharply. “You’re going to guarantee that?” He shook his head. “Impossible. There’s always collateral damage.”

“And how much did you see during Desert Storm and Desert Shield?” the chairman asked politely. “There were stories, allegations but you have to admit, the smart weapons performed superbly. The weapons on the Arsenal ship are a generation beyond that. We have a target impact area of no greater than one meter, Mr. President. Less than thirty-six inches, and from a range of over eighty miles away. There’s not an aircraft on that carrier that can match that kind of targeting precision. And there’s one other factor,” he continued. “Something that will make it the ultimate political war weapon.”

“The targeting?” The President frowned. “I don’t know that it’s such a good idea.”

The chairman stepped forward until he was standing three feet away from the President. “The entire Arsenal ship is capable of being remotely targeted. Mr. President, based on your experiences on the land, you know how critical unity of command and avoiding blue-on-blue engagements is.

One screw up between the aircraft and we take out a friendly land force.

But with the Arsenal ship, all movements can be controlled directly from here, from this very room if you wish. You will truly be the first commander in chief able to act immediately in response to changing battlefield conditions, making sure the war is fought exactly as you wanted it. Even the most advanced communications suite in the world can’t give you that.” He pointed at Admiral Magruder, who now stared down at the floor in disgust.

“The admiral can’t promise you that, not with flights of Tomcats and Hornets filling up the sky and getting in each other’s way.”

The President looked over at Admiral Magruder. “Well?

What about it? My predecessor seemed to trust you. You and I don’t know each other that well yet. Let me hear what you think.”

“I think it’s a big mistake, maybe the biggest one you’ll make during this term,” Vice Admiral Magruder said bluntly. He stood and walked briskly to the front of the room. “Targeting decisions belong in the military arena, Mr. President. No disrespect intended, but you simply do not have the time to develop the in-depth targeting and weaponeering capabilities here that that battle group commander already has. Has, and practices regularly.” Vice Admiral Magruder shook his head. “You get into micromanagement from the White House or even from the Joint Chiefs of Staff and you put lives at risk. Conditions change too quickly, and the battlefront is too fluid to allow that. You must remember that.” The admiral’s voice took on an urgent quality.

“That’s exactly the point that you always miss. Admiral,” the chairman said angrily. “We can bring that technology to the President’s office.

He can make every decision, just as though he were on the scene. And, more importantly, he can make this conflict what it truly is a political statement. An extension of his foreign policy, a demonstration of his individual will. How do you think that will affect the Cubans, knowing that the man on the other end of the hot line has his finger poised exactly over the fire control circuits?”

“They’ll think he’s a fool,” Vice Admiral Magruder said quietly.

“Because even the Cubans remember Vietnam.” He turned back to the President. “As do you, sir. You were there. You know what happens when Washington makes individual targeting decisions on a daily basis.

How could you forget?”

The President nodded slowly, then frowned. “We spent an awful lot of money on the Arsenal concept, though. And what the chairman says is true war is an extension of political objectives. Although sometimes I think it’s the other way around politics is a continuation of war by other means.” He looked back and forth between the two men. “Install the equipment. General.” He raised one hand to forestall Magruder’s protest. “I’m not saying we’ll use it.

For now, the battle group commander remains on-scene commander.

However, I want detailed plans from him regarding his proposed use of the Arsenal ship. And make it clear to him that I view this as an excellent opportunity to use our advanced technology, and to demonstrate its usefulness in any battlefield scenario.” His voice took on a firmer note. “This will work. Admiral if your people give it half a chance.”

The chairman nodded sharply. He turned to Admiral Magruder. “I’ll expect to see the plans later this evening.”

Twenty minutes later. Admiral Magruder was on the telephone to his nephew. Over a highly secure circuit, he outlined the gist of the President’s request. “Make it work, Stoney,” he concluded. “You don’t have to like it, but make it work.”