Cuba

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In a country as poor as Cuba safe houses were hard to come by. The one that William Henry Chance and Tommy Carmellini found themselves in was an abandoned monastery on a promontory of land on the south coast of the island. Surrounded by tidal flats and dense vegetation, the sprawling one-story building was an occasional refuge for drug smugglers and young lovers, who had left their trash strewn about. The rotten thatched roof remained intact over just one room, the kitchen. A roaring fire burned in the fireplace, which apparently the monks had used primarily for cooking.

From the window three fishing boats were visible, wooden boats with a single mast, manned by one or two men. The crew of two of the boats were rigging trot lines, the other was hauling in a net. Chance examined each through binoculars. They looked harmless enough — he doubted if any of the boats had an engine or radio.

“What do you think?” Carmellini asked.

“We have a little time, but I don’t know how much.”

“Guess it depends on how efficient the secret police and the military are.”

“Umm,” Chance grunted, and after one more sweep of everything in sight, put down the binoculars.

Tommy Carmellini sat feeding sheets of paper from the secret police files into the fire as fast as they would burn. He merely scanned the pages as he ripped them from the files and tossed them into the flames.

“Vargas and his guys were certainly thorough,” Carmellini commented. “They looked under every rock.”

“And found every slimy thing that walks or crawls,” Chance agreed. Vargas’s laptop was on, so Chance resumed his examination of the files.

“Sort of like J. Edgar Hoover.”

“Secret police are pretty much alike the world over,” Chance muttered. He moved the cursor to the next file on the list and called it up.

“How many missiles are there on this island?” Carmellini asked as he tore paper.

“I have found six missile files, so far. There may be more — I see some references to material that doesn’t seem to be on this computer.”

“Six? With locations?”

“Names only. Every missile has a name: Miami, Atlanta, Jacksonville, Charleston, New Orleans, and Tampa.”

“What about Mobile?”

“Don’t see it on here.”

“Birmingham, Orlando, the army bases in Alabama?”

“Nothing.”

“I find it hard to believe that in the decades since 1962, the Cubans have managed to keep the secret of their ballistic missiles.”

Chance didn’t reply. He had never agreed with the agency’s spending priorities, which were heavily slanted toward reconnaissance satellites. The people in Washington were sold on high-tech computer and sensor networks for the collection of intelligence. Hardware and software didn’t turn traitor and were easy to justify to the bean counters. The spymasters seemed to have lost sight of a basic truth: networks could only collect the information their sensors were designed to obtain. And they could be fooled. If garbage goes in, garbage comes out.

Ah, well. The world keeps turning.

“How long is that going to take?” Chance asked, referring to the files and the fire.

“Couple hours at this rate.”

Chance glanced at his watch. A few minutes after one o’clock in the afternoon. The rendezvous with the submarine was set for ten o’clock tonight, almost nine hours away. “If we have to run for it, we’ll take everything we haven’t burned.”

He and Carmellini and the four U.S. Navy SEALs on guard in the grasses and bushes out front would try to escape if the Cubans attacked the place. Two speedboats were fueled and ready inside the old boathouse, and a submarine would meet them fifty miles south.

Unfortunately he had no way of knowing if the submarine was already lying submerged at the rendezvous position or if the skipper planned to arrive punctually. If he was already there, Chance, Carmellini, and the SEALs could leave now. If the sub wasn’t at the rendezvous, the two boats would have to spend the afternoon and evening rolling in the swell, hoping and praying the Cuban Navy didn’t come over the horizon.

We’ll wait, Chance decided, glancing at his watch again, though Lord knows the waiting was difficult.

It would be a serious mistake to underestimate Alejo Vargas. The Cuban secret police had over forty years of practice finding and arresting people who sneaked onto the island — one had to assume they were reasonably good at it.

Chance didn’t want to get into a firefight with the Cuban military or secret police. Leaving a body behind would be bad, and leaving a live person to be captured and tortured would be absolute disaster.

If the Cubans came riding over the hill, Chance and his entourage were leaving as quickly as possible. They could take their chances on the open sea. That decision made, Chance turned his attention back to the computer screen in front of him.

Two months ago when he and Carmellini were handed this mission, William Henry Chance would not have bet a plugged nickel they could pull it off. Polish the Spanish in over a hundred hours of classes, be in the right place at the right time when the power went off, break into Alejo Vargas’s safe in secret-police headquarters, carry out the files that Vargas had spent twenty years accumulating, the files he could trade for political support after Castro’s death.

Amazingly, they had pulled it off. Every file that went into the flames was one Vargas would never use.

Chance glanced at Carmellini, who was using a stick to stir the fire, keep the paper burning.

Yep, they had pulled it off. And stumbled upon a biological weapons program and Fidel’s collection of old Soviet ballistic missiles.

Six missiles. No locations.

The locations must be well camouflaged or the satellite reconnaissance people would have seen them long ago. On the other hand, if they knew what they were looking for …

Chance went to the door, called softly to the SEAL lieutenant. “Mr. Fitzgerald, would you set up the satellite telephone again?”

“Of course. Take about five minutes.”

“Thank you.”

While the lieutenant was getting the set turned on and acquiring the com satellite, Chance continued to check the computer. When he hit a file labeled “Trajectories” he sensed he was onto something important.

The file was a series of mathematical calculations, complex formula. Hmmm … Let’s see, if one could figure out where the warheads were aimed, then one could use the known trajectory to work back to the launch site. That’s right, isn’t it?

“Mr. Chance, they’re on.” The lieutenant handed him the satellite phone.

In Washington, D.C., the director of the CIA and the national security adviser listened without comment as the voice of the agent in Cuba came over the speaker phone. He gave them the news as quickly and succinctly as he could. They had the secret-police files, were burning them now though the task would take several more hours, they had a computer containing a file of what appeared to be missile-trajectory calculations, and there were at least six ballistic missiles in Cuba, maybe more. Chance gave the men in Washington the names of the missiles.

“Well done,” the director said, high praise from that taciturn public servant.

When the connection was broken, the national security adviser and the CIA director sat silently, lost in thought. The spymaster was thinking about Alejo Vargas and the possibility he might seize control of the government in Cuba upon the death of Castro. The other man was thinking about ballistic missiles and microscopic viruses of poliomyelitis.

“Another Cuban missile crisis,” muttered the adviser disgustedly.

The CIA director grinned. “Why don’t you look at the silver lining of this cloud for a change? Fate has just presented us with a rare opportunity to clean out a local cesspool. We ought to be down on our knees giving thanks.”

The adviser didn’t see it that way. He knew the president regarded the upcoming death of Castro as a political opportunity, a chance to change the relationship between Cuba and the United States and escape the bitter past. Perhaps the president would decide to just ignore the weapons, pretend they didn’t exist. Then he could hold out the olive branch to the Cubans, get what he wanted from them, get credit for progressive leadership from the American electorate, and negotiate about the weapons later.

Tommy Carmellini was burning the last of the files when William Henry Chance noticed that two of the fishing boats were no longer in sight. “When did they leave?” he asked the naval officer, Lieutenant Fitzgerald.

“Several hours ago, sir. I noticed one of them going west under sail then, but I confess I haven’t been paying much attention to the others.”

Carmellini checked his watch—5:30 P.M. Still three or four hours of daylight left.

“Anything stirring out here?” Chance asked.

“No, sir. Pretty quiet. An old man and a girl walked along the road toward the monastery about three P.M., then turned and went back the way they had come.”

“Did they see your men?”

“No, sir.”

“Well …” In truth, Chance was nervous. He felt trapped, completely at the mercy of forces beyond his control. He took a deep breath, tried to relax as Carmellini stirred the ashes of the fire to ensure that all the paper he had thrown in was totally consumed.

“Would you like some MREs, sir?” the navy officer asked. “My men and I are getting hungry.”

Surprised at himself for not noticing his hunger sooner, Chance said, “Why not?” He hadn’t had a bite since last night.

They were munching at the rations when a helicopter came roaring down the coast from the west. The craft was doing about eighty knots, Chance guessed, when it went over the old monastery. It continued west for a half mile or so, then laid into a turn.

“Shit,” said Tommy Carmellini.

“Lieutenant, I think he’s onto us,” Chance told the SEAL officer.

“If he is, his friends can’t be far away,” the SEAL said. Standing in the center of the room so he was hidden in shadow, he used the binoculars to look at the chopper.

“Two men, one looking at us with binoculars.”

“Maybe it’s time we set sail,” Chance said as he folded the laptop and zipped it into its soft carrying bag. Then he put the whole thing in a waterproof plastic bag, which he carefully sealed.

“Stay down, stay clear of the windows,” the lieutenant said, and darted out the door away from the chopper.

Chance and Carmellini sat on the floor with their backs to the window. The chopper noise came closer and closer, then seemed to stop. It sounded as if the craft were hovering about a hundred feet to the east of the crumbling building. The rotor wash was stirring the remnants of the roof thatch that Chance could see.

Then he heard the sharp crack of a rifle. Two more reports in quick succession. The tone of the chopper’s engine changed, then he heard the sound of the crash.

He risked a peek out the window. The wreckage of the helicopter lay on the rocks by the water’s edge. Amazingly, one of the rotor blades was still attached to the head and turning slowly. A wisp of smoke rose from the twisted metal and Plexiglas. Chance could see the bodies of the two men slumped motionless in what remained of the cockpit. As he watched the wreckage broke into flames.

“Sorry about that,” the lieutenant said as he burst into the room, “but the copilot was holding a radio mike in his hand. I think it’s time we bid Cuba a fond farewell.”

“Let’s go,” Chance agreed.

The boats were fast, at least thirty knots. In the swell of the open sea beyond the peninsula they bucked viciously. Salt spray came back over the men huddled behind the tiny windscreen every time the boat buried its bow.

Chance settled back, wedged himself into place with the computer on his lap.

They were well out to sea, heading due south, when a Cuban gunboat rounded the eastern promontory and gave chase. A puff of smoke came from the forward deck gun and was swept away by the wind.

The splash was several hundred yards short.

The lieutenant at the helm altered course to put the gunboat dead astern. The Cuban captain fired twice more; both rounds fell short. Then he apparently decided to save his ammunition.

The boats ran on to the southwest.

Tommy Carmellini caught Chance’s eye and gave him a huge grin.

Yeah, baby!

The distance between the speedboats and the gunboat slowly widened over the next hour. After a while the gunboat was only visible as a black spot on the horizon when the boat topped a swell. As the rim of the sun touched the sea, the Americans realized the crew of the gunboat had given up and turned back toward the north.

Then they heard the jets. Two swept-wing fighters dropping down astern, spreading out as they came racing in, one after each boat.

“MiG-19s,” the lieutenant shouted. “Hang on tight.”

The shells hit the sea behind the boat and marched toward it as quick as thought. Lieutenant Fitzgerald spun the helm, the boat tilted crazily, and the impact splashes from the strafing run missed to starboard.

The jet that strafed Chance’s boat pulled out right over the boat, no more than fifty feet up. The thunder of the engines was deafening.

The jet made a climbing turn to the left, a long, lazy loop that took it back for another strafing run. His wingman stayed in trail behind him.

“Turn west, into the sun,” Chance shouted to Fitzgerald, who complied. The other boat did the same. The boats came out of their turns with the sun’s orb dead ahead, a ball of fire touching the ocean.

The jets behind overshot the run-in line, so they made a turn away from the boats, letting the distance lengthen, as they worked back to the dead astern position.

Fitzgerald handed Chance his M-16. “As he pulls out overhead, give him the whole magazine full automatic.”

Chance nodded and lay down in the boat.

As the jets thundered down, Fitzgerald turned the boat ninety degrees left, then straightened. The MiG’s left wing dropped as he swung the nose out to lead the crossing boat. He steepened his dive. As the muzzle flashes appeared on his wing root, Fitzgerald spun the helm like a man possessed to bring the boat back hard east, into the attacker.

The shell splashes missed left this time: Chance let go with the M-16 pointing straight up, in the hope the MiG would fly through the barrage.

Whether any of his bullets hit the jet as it slashed overhead, he couldn’t tell. The plane pulled out with its left wing down about thirty degrees, but its nose never came above the horizon. Perhaps the sun dead ahead on the horizon disoriented the pilot. The left roll continued as the plane descended toward the sea, then it hit with a surprisingly small splash. Just like that, it was gone.

The other jet was climbing nicely. The pilot had found his target: the other speedboat was upside down in the sea.

Fitzgerald turned toward the upset boat, kept his speed up.

The wingman took his time — he must realize this would be the last strafing run because the light was failing, and perhaps he was running low on fuel.

He came off the juice, kept the power back, so on this pass he was doing no more than 250 knots, a pleasant maneuvering speed.

Fitzgerald turned his boat so that he was heading straight for the jet. He had the throttle wide open. The jet steepened his dive.

The pilot held his fire and fed in forward stick.

Fitzgerald spun the helm as far as it would go and the boat laid over on its beam in a turn.

The jet didn’t shoot, but began pulling out. William Henry Chance let go with a whole magazine.

Closer and closer the plane dropped toward the sea, the nose still coming up, contrails swirling off the wingtips from the G-loads. The belly of the MiG almost kissed the water, came within a hair’s breadth, and then the jet was climbing into the sky trailing a wisp of smoke.

“Maybe you hit him,” Fitzgerald shouted.

“He sure came close enough.”

Now the jet was turning toward the north, still climbing and trailing smoke. Soon it was out of sight amid the altocumulus clouds.

The overturned boat had been hit by cannon fire, which punched at least six holes in the bottom. One man in the water had a broken arm, the other two were dead. A cannon shell had hit one of the men in the torso.

Chance and Carmellini managed to get the injured man aboard.

“The bodies too,” Fitzgerald demanded. “They’re my men.”

“What about the Cuban pilot?” Carmellini asked Fitzgerald.

“He’s probably dead,” the SEAL lieutenant said. “If he isn’t, I hope he’s a good swimmer.”

The naval officer used a handheld GPS to set his course to the submarine rendezvous.

Jake Grafton walked down the hill from the Officers’ Club and along the pier between the warehouses. He walked past foxholes and strongpoints made from piles of torn-up concrete, each of which contained a handful of marines, wide-eyed young men in camouflage clothing and helmets, armed to the teeth. Someone in every strongpoint watched every step he took. He walked by the muzzles of a dozen machine guns and a few light artillery pieces.

The whole area was well lit by floodlights mounted on the eaves of every warehouse. Some marines were gathered around a mobile kitchen, eating hot MREs, and some were gathered around a headquarters tent near the hurricane-proof warehouse. They all carried gas masks on their belts.

Jake stopped at the tent and said hello to the landing force commander, Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt, who was still awake and keeping an eye on things at this hour. The colonel poured Jake a cup of coffee.

“Your chief of staff, Captain Pascal, was here about an hour ago, Admiral,” the colonel said. “He tells me that cleaning out that warehouse will take three more days. The ordnance crew from Nevada is working around the clock.”

Jake nodded. Gil Pascal was briefing him four times a day.

“The men have been told that this whole operation is classified, not to be discussed with unauthorized personnel,” Eckhardt replied.

“Fine. Is there anything I can do for you, anything you need?”

They discussed logistics for a few minutes, then the colonel said, “I assume you’re keeping up with the news out of Havana, Admiral.”

“I was briefed before I came ashore,” Jake replied.

“I got a message from Central Command advising me that there are large riots going on in three or four major Cuban cities.”

“I have heard that too.”

“Does that have any bearing on our posture here, sir?” the marine officer asked.

“If I knew what the hell was going on, Colonel, you’re the first man I’d tell. Washington isn’t telling me diddly-squat. I don’t think they know diddly-squat to tell. Yes, the intel summary says people are rioting in the streets in several Cuban towns, everyone in Washington is waiting for Castro to tell his people to shut up, for the troops to wade in. So far it hasn’t happened.”

“Maybe Castro is dead,” Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt speculated.

“God only knows. Just keep your people alert and ready. Three more days. Just three more.”