Cuba

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

By dawn Jake Grafton had five biological warheads locked up aboard United States; five intermediate-range ballistic missiles had been melted and burned in their silos; and every uniformed American and flyable military aircraft was out of Cuba. It had been a tight squeeze.

Over half the SuperCobra helicopters lacked the fuel to return across the Florida Straits to Key West, nor was there room for them on the decks of U. S. ships off the Cuban coast. More fuel in flexible bladders was flown in from Kearsarge. The choppers were refueled, then launched for Key West. Four of the SuperCobras had been shot down, and one had suffered so much battle damage it was unsafe to fly and had to be destroyed.

Prowlers and Hornets armed with HARM missiles continued to patrol over central Cuba all night, ready to attack any radar that came on the air. Above them F-14s cruised back and forth, ready to engage any bogey brave enough to take to the sky.

Several Cuban Army units probed gently at the marines guarding the silo sites while they prepared to withdraw, but a few bursts of machine-gun fire and mortar shells from the marines were enough to discourage further attention. The marines eventually disengaged and pulled out unmolested.

When he landed his MiG-29 at Cienfuegos, Major Carlos Corrado found that he couldn’t get fuel. Two cruise missiles had destroyed the fuel trucks and electrical pumping unit; all fueling would have to be done by hand, a slow, labor-intensive process. Disgusted, Corrado walked to the nearest bar in town, where he was a regular, and proceeded to get drunk, his usual evening routine. By dawn he was passed out in his bunk in the barracks, sleeping it off.

In Havana the next morning, Alejo Vargas summoned the senior officers of the Cuban Army, Navy, and Air Force to the presidential palace for a verbal hiding.

“Cowards, fools, traitors,” he raged, so infuriated he quivered. “We had them in the palm of our hand, and all we had to do was make a fist. A red-handed apprehension of the American pirates would have brought the applause and respect of the Cuban people. A haul of American prisoners in uniform would have given us instant credibility. This was our chance.”

“Señor Presidente, the troops would not obey. They refused to attack. When the troops refuse to obey direct orders, what would you have us do?”

“Shoot some generals,” Vargas snapped. “Shoot some colonels. Scared men fight best.”

“If we shot the generals and colonels the men would shoot us,” General Alba explained, and he meant it. “The Americans are too well equipped, too well trained, too well armed. Their firepower is overwhelming. To fight them toe-to-toe would be suicidal, and the men know that.”

Alba’s logic was unassailable. To complain now that the Cuban Army, Navy, and Air Force did not do what he, Vargas, knew they could not do was illogical and self-defeating. No military force on the planet could whip the Americans in a stand-up fight, which was precisely why he had spent the last three years developing a biological-warfare capability.

Temper tantrums will get me no place, Vargas reminded himself, and willed himself back under control. He sat down at his desk, made a gesture to the others to seat themselves.

“Gentlemen, we must move forward. I have trust and confidence in you, and I hope you have the same in me. You are of course correct — we cannot overcome the Americans militarily. We must outwit them to prevail. With your help, it still can be done.”

They sat looking at him expectantly.

“The laboratory where the biological agent for the warheads was created is in the science building of the University of Havana. Last night the Americans destroyed the warhead-manufacturing facility and our six operational ballistic missiles. All the American cruise missiles, the airplanes, the assault troops were employed to that end. Tonight the Americans will try to destroy the laboratory.”

“Why did they not attack the lab last night?” Alba asked.

“You are the military man — you tell me. Perhaps they lacked sufficient assets, perhaps they did not have political support to create massive amounts of Cuban casualties or sustain significant American casualties — I do not know. The most likely explanation is that they were afraid of inadvertently releasing biological agents. Whatever, the lab is still intact and capable of producing polio viruses in sufficient quantity to supply a weapons program. The minds directing the American military effort will not ignore that laboratory.”

“Señor Presidente, what would you have us do?”

Alejo Vargas smiled. He leaned forward in his chair and began explaining.

“Tell me what happened,” Jake Grafton said to Toad Tarkington when Toad got back aboard the carrier. The sky was gray in the east by then, and Toad was filthy and bone tired.

A stretcher team from the ship’s hospital met the Osprey on the flight deck and took Rita and Crash Wade below for examination.

Toad told his boss everything he thought he would want to know about the battle around silo one, about the missile rising, holding on to the tiny open access port, kicking off as the missile went through the barn roof, falling ….

He didn’t tell Jake that he was so scared he thought he was going to die, and he left out how he felt when they told him Rita had been shot down just in front of the barn. He didn’t mention how he felt when he realized she was alive, bruised up but alive. He didn’t have to tell him, because Jake Grafton could read all that in his face.

The admiral listened, looking very tired and sad, and said nothing. Just nodded. Then patted him on the shoulder and sent him to take a shower and get a few hours’ sleep.

The young CIA officer, Tommy Carmellini, sat in the dirty-shirt wardroom with a stony face, his jaw set. Chance was dead and he didn’t want to talk about it.

He talked about the mission when Jake Grafton asked, however, told the admiral how it had gone, assured him that all the cultures in the building had been destroyed.

“The problem is that the bastards may have cultures stashed anyplace. Vargas may have a potful under his bed, just in case.”

“Yes,” Jake Grafton said, “I understand.”

He did understand. To be absolutely certain of eradicating all the poliomyelitis virus in Cuba, he would need to burn the whole island to a cinder.

Jake went to his stateroom and tried to get a few hours’ sleep himself.

Tired as he was, sleep wouldn’t come. He tossed and turned as he thought about the battle just ended and the one still to come. What had he learned from last night’s battle?

What could go wrong tonight?

After an hour of frustration, he took a long, hot shower. This time when he lay down he dozed off.

Two hours later he was wide awake. He put on a clean uniform and headed for his office.

Toad was already there huddled with Gil Pascal. “Rita’s okay,” he told Jake. “Crash Wade didn’t make it. Amazing, isn’t it? One dead, one just bruised.”

“Can Rita fly tonight?” Jake asked.

Tarkington swallowed hard, nodded once.

“She’s the best Osprey pilot we’ve got,” Jake said. “She’s got the flight if she wants it.”

“She’d kill me if I asked you to leave her behind.”

“She probably would, and you such a handsome young stud. What a loss to the world that would be.”

“The Osprey that is bringing the survivor from Hue City will be here in twenty minutes. I’ll bring him to your cabin.”

“Hector Sedano’s brother?”

“That’s correct, sir. And the message said he wants to go back to Cuba.”

Maximo Sedano parked his car on the pier so he wouldn’t have to carry his gear very far. Scuba tanks, wet suit, flippers, weight belt, mask, he had the whole wardrobe.

He got all that stuff aboard the boat, checked the fuel, then cast off.

The gold was in Havana Harbor; he was sure of it. He had a chart that he had laid off in grids, and he had labeled each grid with a number that reflected a probability that he thought reasonable. The area off the main shipping piers didn’t seem promising, nor did the busy areas by the fishing piers. The area off the private docks where Fidel had kept his boat seemed to Maximo to be the most likely, so that was where he would look first.

He took the boat to the center of the most promising area and anchored it.

It was inevitable that people would see him, so he had told everyone who asked that he was studying old shipwrecks in Havana Harbor. He knew enough about that subject to make it sound plausible — he could talk about the American battleship Maine and three treasure galleons that went on the rocks here in the harbor during a hurricane.

If he found it, he would not let on. If he found the gold, he would leave it where it was until he could come back for it with paid men and the proper equipment.

If.

Well, every man needs a dream, he reflected, and this was his. Better this than dying defending a ballistic-missile silo. Those fools.

The gold was near. He knew it. Sitting here on the boat he could feel its power.

God damn you, Fidel.

Juan Sedano, El Ocho, got out of the Osprey with a look of wonder on his face. The airplane, the aircraft carrier, the jets and noise and hundreds of foreigners, few of whom spoke his language — it was quite a lot for a young man who had never before been out of Cuba.

He got out of the Osprey wearing a set of navy dungarees, a white T-shirt, and a Hue City baseball cap, and carrying a pillowcase containing clothes, underwear, toilet items, and souvenirs given him by the men and women of Hue City, everything from photographs of the ship to CDs and Playboy magazines.

Toad Tarkington met Ocho on the flight deck and led the tall, broad-shouldered young man into the island and up the ladder to the flag bridge, where Jake Grafton and an interpreter, a lieutenant fighter pilot of Latin descent, were waiting. Jake took Ocho and the lieutenant into his at-sea cabin, where the three of them found chairs.

“When did you leave Cuba?” Jake Grafton asked Ocho after the introductions.

“Six or seven days ago,” the lieutenant said, “he isn’t sure. He lost track of the days at sea.”

“Tell him that Fidel Castro is dead, that his brother Hector is in prison.”

The Spanish-speaking junior officer did so.

Ocho’s reaction was unexpected. Tears streamed down his face. “He asked me not to leave Cuba. He must have known that Fidel was dying, that something was happening. I left anyway.”

He wiped at the tears, embarrassed. “I love my brother. He is my idol, a true man who believes in something larger than himself. I cry because I am ashamed of myself, of what I have done. He asked me not to go and I refused to listen.”

“Tell me about Hector,” Jake Grafton asked gently.

The admiral had expected to spend five minutes with the boy, but the five minutes became fifteen, then a half hour, then an hour. Ocho told of going to meetings with Hector, of the speeches he made, of his many friends, of antagonizing the regular priests and the bureaucrats while he spread the message of a coming new day to anyone who would listen, and many did.

Jake gave Ocho part of his attention while he thought about the lab in the science building in the University of Havana.

When Ocho finally began to run dry, Jake picked up the telephone and called Toad. “I’m in my at-sea cabin,” he said. “Have the guys in the television studio play that tape we downloaded from the satellite this morning on the television in this stateroom. No place else.”

“Yessir.”

Toad called back in three minutes. “Channel two, Admiral.”

Jake turned on the television.

In a few seconds Fidel Castro came on the screen. He was obviously a sick man. He was sitting behind a desk, wearing a green fatigue shirt.

“Citizens of Cuba, I speak to you today for the last time. I am fatally ill ….”

The young lieutenant translated.

“I wish to spend a few minutes telling you of my dream for Cuba, my dream of what our nation can become in the years ahead. It is imperative that we end our political isolation, that we join the family of nations as a full-fledged member. To make this transition a reality will require major changes on our part, and a new political vision ….”

Jake Grafton moved closer to the television set, adjusted his glasses, and studied the image of Fidel Castro. The man was perspiring heavily, obviously in pain, and every so often he would move slightly, as if seeking a more comfortable position.

“For years I have watched with admiration and respect,” Fidel continued, “as Hector Sedano moved among our people, making friends, telling them of his vision for Cuba, preparing them for the changes and sacrifices that will be necessary in the days to come.”

Fidel winced, paused, and took a sip of water from a glass sitting nearby. Then he continued:

“We as a nation do not have to give up our revolutionary commitment to social justice to participate as full-fledged members of the world economy. We would be traitors to the heroes of the revolution and ourselves were we to do so. In the past few years the Church, in which so many Cubans believe, has come to understand that one cannot be a true Christian without an active commitment to social justice, the commitment that every loyal Cuban carries in his breast as his birthright. The Church has changed to join us. Now we also must change.

“The time has come for this government to renounce communism, to embrace private enterprise, to act as a referee to ensure that every Cuban has a decent job that pays a living wage and every enterprise pays its fair share of taxes …”

In less than a minute Fidel reached his peroradon:

“Hector Sedano is the man I believe best able to lead our nation into this future.”

The tape ended anticlimactically a few seconds later. A tired, haggard Fidel spoke to someone off-camera, said, “That’s enough.”

Jake Grafton reached out, turned off the television.

Ocho was stunned. “I thought Fidel was dead!”

“He is dead. He made this tape before he died.”

“That was not a live performance?”

“No. A film, a videotape.”

“And you have it!” Ocho’s eyes were wide in amazement. “They must have played the videotape on television, and you copied it. But if it has been on television in Havana, why is Hector in prison?”

“The tape has never been on television,” Jake said. “As far as I know, you are the very first Cuban to see it since it was made.”

Ocho stared, trying to understand. Finally he asked, “What are you going to do with it?”

“I was wondering,” Jake Grafton said, “if you would take it back to the lady who gave it to us. I believe she is your aunt by marriage, Mercedes Sedano?”

“Mercedes!” Ocho gaped. “She was Fidel’s mistress. Why did she give you the tape?”

“You will have to ask her. Will you return the tape to her?”

“Of course. When do you want me to do this?”

“This evening, I think. By the way, are you hungry?”

“Oh, yes. I like the hamburger. Muy bueno.”

Jake and the lieutenant took Ocho to the flag wardroom for lunch. Ocho talked of baseball, of Cuba, of his brother Hector, and Hector’s dreams for a free Cuba. He talked even with his mouth full, so the lieutenant who was translating didn’t get much to eat. Jake let the young Cuban talk.

After lunch the admiral asked for Tommy Carmellini, so Toad Tarkington went looking for him. Carmellini was asleep. He smelled of liquor, which Toad ignored — after all, the man was a civilian.

When Toad got Carmellini into the admiral’s office, he asked the chief petty officer to bring coffee, which Carmellini accepted gratefully.

“I’ve been thinking about your comment,” Jake Grafton said.

“What comment?” Carmellini asked between sips of hot black coffee.

“About Vargas having jugs of cultures under his bed.”

“Umm.” Carmellini drank more coffee. When he saw that the admiral was expecting him to say more, he shrugged. “That was a flippant comment. I’m sorry.”

Jake Grafton scratched his chin. “I thought it was … profound, in a way.”

“How’s that?”

“We can’t burn the island down.”

“That would be impractical,” Carmellini agreed. “We’d have eleven million Cubans to house and feed afterwards.”

“So where does that leave us?”

Tommy Carmellini searched the faces of the naval officers.

“There’s a presidential directive against assassinating heads of state,” the CIA man said cautiously.

“I have seen references to such a directive,” Jake Grafton said, “though I haven’t read the thing.”

“Trust me. It exists.”

“Friend, I believe you. That’s sound public policy and I don’t have anything like that in mind. Our objective is the lab and the cultures: that’s more than enough to keep us busy. You’ve been there before and know the layout. Will you go back with us tonight?”

Tommy Carmellini nodded slowly. “I appreciate your asking, Admiral. I’d be delighted.”

“We are planning a military assault. It is going to be a holy mess, I think. Vargas will probably ambush us on the way in or booby-trap the lab to blow up after we’ve fought our way in there. Maybe both”

“He’s that kind of guy,” Carmellini agreed.

“Hector Sedano’s brother is aboard ship. He was picked up floating in the ocean north of Cuba two days ago after the boat he was on sank. Everyone else aboard drowned or was a victim of shark attack. This kid is either Hector’s brother or a liar of Clintonian dimensions. They call him El Ocho. I want you to talk to him, feel him out. He impressed me as an extremely competent, capable young man. Talk to him, then come back and tell me what you think.”

Toad Tarkington was in the Air Intelligence Center studying satellite images and radar images from an E-3 Sentry AWACS plane flying a race track pattern over the Florida Straits. The University of Havana science building was at the center of all the images.

“What’s happening in Havana?” Jake asked.

“The streets are full of people,” Toad said. “Especially around La Cabana Prison. Do you think they are there to break Hector out?”

“They’re there because he is,” Jake muttered, and used a magnifying glass to study the infrared images of the science building.

Toad pointed at the picture with the tip of a pen. “Tank,” he said. “Vargas is going to be waiting with his guns loaded.”

“Is he taking cultures out of the building? Do any of the specialists in Maryland have any opinions on that?”

“No one has seen any milk trucks. He’d be a fool to haul that stuff through Havana in a regular truck.”

“Desperate men do foolish things,” Jake Grafton said, and laid the magnifying glass back on the table.

As the sun was setting, Jake received a call from the White House. “I just watched that tape of Fidel,” the president said over the encrypted circuit.

“It’s impressive. We are going to deliver it to the woman who gave it to us, see if she can get it on television tonight”

“Maybe that will pan out,” the president said. “The American Interest Section in Havana says that the crowd outside the prison is restless. Local police are nowhere in sight.”

A wave of relief swept over Jake Grafton. “That’s the best news I’ve heard today, sir.”

“I’m really worried about those viruses.”

“Sir, we’ll do what we can.”

“Just what are you going to do, Admiral?”

“Improvise as I go along. Do you really want to know?”

“I guess not,” the president said heavily.

Alejo Vargas was in the office area across the hallway from the lab in the University of Havana science building when General Alba came in with old General Rafael Zerquera, the titular head of the Cuban armed forces, the chief of staff. The old man was at least eighty-five, probably a bit more, and he walked with a cane. With the two military men were several ministers, including Ferrara and the mayor of Havana. Behind them were six young officers, all wearing sidearms.

“Señor Presidente,” General Zerquera began, and looked around the room for a chair. He found one and his aide helped him to it, though Vargas had not invited anyone to sit.

The general looked around slowly, taking everything in. Through the window one could see the air lock across the hallway that led to the sealed laboratory.

“I called your office, called the Ministry of Interior — they could not tell me where you were. The army knew, however.”

Vargas said nothing.

“I saw a missile launched last night — everyone in central Cuba saw or heard it.” The old man shook his head, remembering. “Weapons to destroy cities, kill millions — Fidel knew that if the Yanquis ever found out about the missiles, they would seek to destroy them. He was right. And he knew that if the missiles were ever used on the United States …”

Zerquera cocked his head, looked at Vargas. “So you launched at least one, and it never reached its target”

“What’s done is done,” Vargas snapped. “How do you know the missile did not reach its target?”

“Because we are still alive,” Zerquera said. “If you think the Yanquis will not retaliate, you are a dangerous fool.”

Vargas had to restrain himself. Zerquera had many friends; it would be impossible to stop tongues from wagging if he were shot here, in front of these junior officers.

“And then there is this lab,” Zerquera continued blandly, gesturing at the window glass and the laboratory beyond. “Here you grow the poison to murder Cuba. If you use this on the Americans, they will retaliate. If it escapes, Cubans will die horribly.”

Vargas took a deep breath before he answered. “We are moving the cultures.”

“Moving them where?”

“To a place where they will be safe.”

“Excuse me, Señor Presidente, for my failure to understand. What other place in Cuba has the sealed ventilation system and biological alarms and other safeguards that exist here?”

“There are none.”

“So there is no place safer than this building.”

“Tonight the Americans will probably attack this building in order to destroy the cultures. They burned several facilities last night that contained cultures, and they will probably burn this one. I am not a prophet, yet I make that prediction with a great degree of confidence.”

“The president of the United States can destroy this building and everything it contains with a telephone call,” General Zerquera said softly, “and there is nothing on earth we can do about it. In my opinion the viruses should be destroyed, if it can be safely done. An escape of the polio viruses from whatever containers they are in will kill vast numbers of our people unless the containers are housed in a specially prepared place, like this laboratory.”

Vargas looked exasperated. “You exceed your authority, General, when you—”

Zerquera stopped him with a hand. “No, no, no! You exceed your authority when you endanger the Cuban people in order to gratify your ambition.”

“Do not cross me, old man,” Vargas snarled.

“I am not going to interfere in politics, Alejo. I never have. The Cuban people will decide who they want to lead them — neither you nor the exiles nor Fidel nor the president of the United States can dictate who the Cuban people will choose. For forty years they wanted Fidel, a loquacious eccentric with much personal charm and too little wisdom, in my opinion. Yet a new day has come.”

Vargas gestured angrily. “These others have brought you here with lies about me.”

General Rafael Zerquera got to his feet. He leaned on his cane, examined every face, and ended with his eyes on Vargas. “A nation matures much like a man does. Youth makes mistakes: with age and experience comes wisdom.”

“You waste our time,” Vargas said through his teeth.

“You will not remove the cultures from this building. The risk to the population is too great.”

Vargas stepped forward to slap the old fool, but one of the aides stopped him with the barrel of a pistol pointed right at his face.

“Another step, Señor Presidente,” the young man said, “and you are dead.”

Zerquera turned and headed for the door. He went through it, then took the elevator up to street level. The civilians followed him. Alba and the young officers stayed.

“You, Alba? You have betrayed me?”

“I obey my conscience,” Alba said, and posted his men in front of the lab.

“Kill anyone who tries to remove anything from that room,” the general told them.

As the last of the daylight faded, a helicopter from USS United States crossed the southern shore of the island of Cuba flying northwest. The helicopter stayed low, just above the treetops. In the cockpit both the pilot and copilot were wearing night-vision goggles. Behind them in the bay sat Tommy Carmellini and Ocho Sedano. A .50-caliber machine gun was mounted in the open door. The gunner wearing night-vision goggles sat on the jump seat, looking out.

Overhead EA-6B Prowlers and F/A-18 Hornets with their HARM missiles ready crossed the coast at the same time. These airplanes were there to attack any Cuban radars that came on the air tonight. So far, all was quiet. Above the Prowlers and Hornets, F-14 Tomcats patrolled back and forth.

One of the F-14 pilots was Stiff Hardwick. He and his RIO had ejected last night almost on top of silo one, so they had ridden home in an Osprey. The RIO, Boots VonRauenzahn, sustained a fracture to the left arm; he was sporting a cast tonight and couldn’t fly. The junior RIO in the squadron, Sailor Kamow, drew the short straw and was sitting behind Stiff tonight.

Stiff had had a hell of a bad day. First the shoot-down by a Cuban fighter pilot, then he endured a day of razzing from his peers, all of whom had a great laugh at his tale of woe, then tonight he had to fly with Sailor, a quiet woman who never had much to say around the testosterone-charged ready room.

On the way out to the plane this evening, Boots had put his good arm around the shoulders of his pal, Stiff. “Sailor will take good care of you. Don’t fret the program, shipmate.”

Stiff snarled something crude in reply and stomped off.

He was the sole victim of the entire Cuban Air Force — fighter pilots generally ignored helicopters, so the Osprey and choppers destroyed by the MiG pilot didn’t register on Stiff’s radar screen. He was never, ever going to be able to live down the ignominy of last night. His squadron mates would probably tattoo a ribald memorial of his disgrace on his ass some night when he was drunk or chisel it on his tombstone. His skipper had almost put somebody else in his place on the flight schedule tonight — Stiff begged shamelessly: “You gotta let me fly,” he sobbed, “give me a chance to redeem myself.”

“You aren’t going to do anything stupid out there, are you?” the skipper asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.

“Oh, no, sir,” Stiff assured the man.

So here he was, off to slay the dragon if he came out of his lair. And that goddamn Cuban fighter jock was probably still swilling free beer on the tale of the damned Yanqui who pulled up in front of him and lit his afterburners.

Actually Carlos Corrado hadn’t thought much about his aerial victory. He awoke in the early afternoon with a blinding headache and treated himself to his usual hangover regimen — a cup of coffee, a cigar, and a puke.

He felt a little better this evening but thought he should forgo food. He would eat after he flew, he decided.

The powers that be didn’t call the base today, of course, because the telephone system was hors de combat. Alas, a desk-flying colonel drove down from Havana.

“Please stay on the ground, Corrado. I would make that an order, but knowing you, you would disobey it. So I ask you, please do not fly tonight. Please do not allow yourself to be shot down. Please do not shame us.”

Carlos Corrado told the colonel where he could go and what he could do to himself when he got there.

Tonight he sat on the concrete leaning up against a nose tire of his steed, which was parked between two gutted hangars. The troops had worked all day getting the MiG-29 fueled, serviced, and armed. It was ready. Now all Corrado needed to know was where the Americans were and what they were up to. Of course there was no one to tell him.

The walls of the hangars were still standing and magnified the sounds of the sky. As he chewed on his cigar butt, Corrado could hear jets running high. The growl was deep and faint.

The planes were American, certainly, and they had fangs. If he went heedlessly blasting into the sky, his life was going to come to an abrupt, violent end.

Where were they going?

Havana? He thought they would go there last night and they never got near the place.

Of course, the headquarters colonel knew nothing. At least, he had nothing to say. Except that Corrado was a fool. Only a fool would attack the American war machine head-on, he said.

Corrado got out a match and lit the butt. He puffed, coughed, chewed on the soggy mess.

Well, hell, we’re all fools, really. Does any of this matter? And if so, to whom?

Rita Moravia settled the V-22 onto the flight deck of the United States and watched as Jake Grafton came trotting out from the island. Toad and a dozen marines carrying aircraft flares followed him. The marines had their rifles slung over their shoulders and wore their Kevlar helmets. Under the red lights shining down from the ship’s island superstructure, the shadowy procession looked like something from a dream, a vision without substance.

She felt the substance as the men trooped up the ramp in the back of the plane and the vibrations reached her through the fuselage. Soon Jake Grafton was looking over her shoulder.

“Toad says you’re okay. Now tell me the truth.”

“I’m okay, Admiral.” She turned and flashed him a grin. The bruise on her forehead was yellow and blue now.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Jake said, and strapped himself into the crew chief’s seat.