Cuba

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It was a rare summer night, with a clean, clear sky, visibility exceeding twenty miles. A series of rain showers had swept the Florida Straits earlier in the evening, cleaning out the haze and crud.

Major Jack O’Brian sat in the cockpit of his F-117 looking at the cities below as he flew down the west coast of Florida, out to sea a little so as to avoid airplanes on the airway. O’Brian had one radio tuned to his squadron’s tactical frequency, which he was merely monitoring in case the mission was scrubbed at the last minute, and on the other he listened to Miami Center. He wasn’t talking to the air traffic controller either. His transponder was off. He was cruising at 36,500 feet, 500 feet above the flight level, so he should miss any airliner that he failed to see. Of course, an airliner going under him would not see him because his plane was midnight black and the exterior position lights were off.

The stealth fighter was also invisible to the controller at Miami Center, who had his radar configured to received coded replies from transponders. Even if the controller chose to look at actual radar returns, the skin paints, he would not have seen the F-117, which had been designed to be invisible to radars at long distances.

This feature also hid the stealth fighter from the American early-warning radars that were sweeping these skies looking for outlaw aircraft that might be aloft in the night, such as drug smugglers. And in just a few minutes it would hide it from Cuban radars probing the sky over the Florida Straits. If there were any.

Completely unseen, a black ghost flitting through the night, Jack O’Brian’s F-117 passed Tampa Bay and continued south toward Key West. It was flying at Mach.72 to conserve fuel. The fighter had tanked over Tallahassee and would tank again in just a few minutes over two hours near Tampa. But first, a little jaunt to Havana.

Navigation was by global positioning system, GPS. The pilot had entered the coordinates of his destination into the computer before he even started the engines of his airplane, and now the computer and autopilot were taking him there. All he had to do was monitor the system, make sure everything functioned as it was designed to.

O’Brian sucked on his oxygen mask, reached under it to scratch his nose, readjusted his flight gloves, and generally fidgeted around in his seat. He was nervous — who wouldn’t be? — but quite confident. After all, there was very little danger as long as the aircraft’s systems continued to work properly. The craft truly was invisible at night. Of course it did have a small infrared signature and could be seen by an enemy searching the skies with infrared detectors, but there was no reason to suspect the Cubans were doing any such thing.

Barring a freak accident, like getting hit by a random unaimed artillery shell or having a midair with a civilian plane, the Cubans would never know the F-117 had even been around. Certainly they would never see it on radar or with the naked eye.

The Cubans might get. wise when and if he dropped some bombs, but even so, there was nothing they could do about an invisible bomber.

The biggest risk, Jack O’Brian decided, was having a midair with one of the other three F-117s that were out here prowling around.

The second plane was running twenty miles back in trail, a thousand feet above this one, and the others an equal distance up and back, all with their own hard altitudes. Jack glanced again at his altimeter, just to be sure.

Key West came into view on schedule, a bit off to his left. The lights of the other Keys looked like a handful of pearls flung into the blackness of the night.

Then Key West lay behind and the lights of Havana appeared ahead. Jack O’Brian reduced power and set up a descent.

Angel One, the helicopter from United States, landed in the cane across the road from Dona Maria Sedano’s house. Ocho got out of the chopper and walked across the road toward the house. Tommy Carmellini trailed along behind him.

Mercedes was standing on the porch as Ocho walked up. They launched themselves at each other, hugged fiercely. Mercedes didn’t even glance at Carmellini, who was dressed in a civilian shirt and trousers but had a pistol strapped to his waist.

Mercedes kept her arm around Ocho, took him into the house where his mother was sitting in a chair.

Carmellini sat on the porch, watched the occasional car and truck go by. The vehicles slowed, their passengers gawking at the idling helo, but they didn’t stop.

Soon Ocho came outside with Mercedes. She had the videotape in her hand. Ocho introduced Carmellini.

“If the videotape is to have maximum effect, it should be aired immediately,” Carmellini told Mercedes, who held the tape tightly with both hands.

“We are going to get Hector out of prison,” Ocho said, anxious to explain. “We could take you to Havana television and leave you, if you wish.”

Mercedes nodded, so Ocho put his arm around her and led her to the helicopter. Dona Maria was visible in the door of her cottage; Ocho waved at her before he climbed into the helo.

Jake Grafton used an infrared viewing scope to examine the streets of Havana. He was sitting in the copilot’s seat of the V-22 Osprey, which Rita had racked over in a right bank, orbiting the downtown. The city was well lit — not as well lit as an American city, but Almost The central core of the city was dark — the electrical power had yet to be restored.

The area around the University of Havana seemed deserted. No tanks, no armored personnel carriers, no barricades, apparently no troops. The streets looked empty.

Strange.

Or maybe not so strange. Maybe the lab was empty, the viruses moved to God knows where.

Everyone in Cuba seemed to be in the streets around La Cabana Prison; at least a hundred thousand people, Jake estimated. Bonfires burned in the streets near the prison, huge fires that appeared as bright spots of light on the infrared viewing scope.

He looked for the antiaircraft guns which he knew were there. He found them, but at this altitude he couldn’t see people around them. “Go lower,” he told Rita. “Two thousand feet.”

Still circling to the right, she eased the power and let the Osprey descend.

Jake turned his attention to the prison, an island of darkness on the edge of the stricken city center. The main gate was an opening in a high masonry wall that surrounded the huge old stone fortress. The gate seemed to be closed, but at this altitude and angle, it was difficult to be sure. Immediately behind the gate sat a tank — Jake had seen enough of those planforms to be absolutely certain. Two more tanks sat in the courtyard … and some automobiles. Jake adjusted the magnification on the infrared viewer. Now he could see individuals, walking, standing in knots, talking through the fence — yes, the main gate was closed.

Two antiaircraft batteries sat beside the prison, old Soviet four-barreled ZPUs with optical sights. They were useless against fast movers but would be hell on helicopters.

The roof of the prison was flat, and apparently empty. No. Correct that. Snipers on the corners. Damn!

Jake checked the radio to ensure he was on the proper frequency, then keyed the mike. “Angel One, this is Battlestar One, where are you?”

“Angel One’s on its way to the television station to deliver a passenger.”

“Let me know when you lift off from there.”

“Roger that, Battlestar.”

“Night Owl Four Two, call your posit.”

Jack O’Brian in the F-117 replied, “Night Owl Four Two is overhead at ten.”

“La Cabana Prison is our object of interest tonight, Four Two. I want single bombs, all to stay within the walls. Can you do that?”

“We can try, sir. You know the limitations on my equipment as well as I do.”

“Your best efforts. Lots of friendlies outside the wall. First target is the antiaircraft battery inside the prison walls on the north side. Do you see it?”

“Wait.” Seconds ticked by.

“Got it.”

“The second target is the antiaircraft battery on the south side.”

“Night Owl Four Four is on station at eleven thousand, Battlestar. Why don’t we each run one of those targets? I’ll take the north one.”

The two F-117 pilots discussed it and Jake approved

Jack O’Brian had several possible ways to drop the bombs he carried in the internal bomb bay. If he were bombing through a cloud deck or in rain or snow, he would release the unpowered weapon over the target and let it steer itself to the GPS bull’s-eye through use of a GPS receiver, a computer, and a set of canards mounted on the nose of the weapon. Tonight, since the sky was reasonably clear, he would illumine the target with a laser beam while overflying it, and let the unpowered bomb fly itself to the laser-designated bull’s-eye. If O’Brian could keep the laser beam directly on the spot he wished the bomb to hit, he should be able to achieve pinpoint, bomb-in-a-barrel accuracy.

Once again O’Brian carefully checked his electronic countermeasures panel, which was dark. The Cubans were off the air, which was comforting.

Now he adjusted the focus of the infrared camera in the nose. The display blossomed slowly, continued to change as he got closer and the grazing angle increased.

He could see the gun plainly owing to the camera’s magnification. He sweetened the crosshairs just a touch as the airplane motored sedately toward the target, still cruising at ten thousand feet, and turned on the laser designator, which was slaved to the crosshairs.

Jack O’Brian checked his watch. “Night Owl Four Two is thirty seconds from drop.”

“Four Four is a minute out”

“Don’t turn on your laser until you see my thing pop.”

“Roger.”

Armament panel set for one bomb, laser mode selected, laser designator on, master armament switch on, steady on the run-in heading, autopilot engaged, crosshairs steady on the target — no drift — system into Attack. A tone sounded in his ears and was broadcast over the radio on the tactical frequency. O’Brian knew that several people were listening for that tone, including the pilot of the other F-117 Night Owl Four Four, Judy Kwiatkowski.

He watched for unexpected wind drift. Not much tonight — what little wind there was was well within the capability of the bomb to handle.

Counting down, the second hand on the clock on the instrument panel ticking … The release marker marched down and he felt the thump as the bomb bay doors snapped open. Immediately thereafter the bomb was released, the tone stopped, then the doors closed again.

With the bomb in the air, it was essential that the cross-hairs on the laser designator stay precisely on the target because the bomb was guiding itself toward this spot of invisible light.

He took manual control of the crosshairs, kept them right on the artillery piece beside the old fortress.

The aspect angle of the target was changing, of course, as the airplane flew over it and beyond. Now it was behind the plane, the crosshairs right on the target.

Then, suddenly, the antiaircraft artillery piece disappeared in a flash as the five-hundred-pound bomb struck it dead center.

Thirty seconds later the gun on the south side of the building was hit by Judy Kwiatkowski’s weapon.

“Very good, Night Owls,” Battlestar said. “The next target is the tank nearest to the main gate. I think one bomb will discourage the tankers. Four Four, I want you to bomb the main gate. Tell me if you see it.”

“Four Four has the target”

“How long until the weapons hit?”

“Give us ten minutes to go out and make another run.”

“Ten minutes will do fine,” Jake Grafton said, then turned to Rita.

“After the bombs hit the tanks and main gate, I want you to land on the roof. The guys in back will go out shooting and take care of the snipers. Let me go talk to Eckhardt and Toad.” Both officers were riding in the back of the Osprey with the grunts.

Jake unstrapped and got out of the copilot’s seat. In a moment Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt climbed into the seat and used the infrared scope. “See the snipers?” the admiral asked. “I want you and your people to shoot them or capture them, whatever.”

“Yes, sir.” The colonel got out of the seat.

“Ten minutes, Rita. Start your clock.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Rita said, and began figuring the best way to approach the prison.

A man from the control tower ran to find Carlos Corrado and tell him that American aircraft were over Havana. The people in the tower heard the news on short-wave radio from headquarters.

“Havana.”

Corrado threw away his cigar butt and got into his flying gear.

Five minutes later he was taxiing. He didn’t stop at the end of the runway to check the systems or controls, but added power and stroked the burners. The big fighter responded like a thoroughbred race horse and lifted off after a short run.

Of course he left his radar off.

Still, the crew of the U.S. Air Force E-3 Sentry over the Isle of Pines picked up a skin-paint return of the MiG almost immediately.

“Showtime One Oh Two, we got a bogey lifting off Cienfuegos, looks like he’s on his way to Havana on the deck. Try to intercept. Over.”

Stiff Hardwick had been airborne for an hour and ten minutes. The recovery aboard United States would begin in exactly thirty-five minutes. This bogey was on the deck using fuel at a prodigious rate, and when Stiff came swooping down from 30,000 feet his fuel consumption would also go through the roof. Fuel would be tight. Very tight. If he had to stroke the throttles to drop this turkey, he was going to need a tanker.

“One Oh Two will probably need a tanker.”

“Roger that. Showtime One Oh Seven—” this was Stiff’s wingman, who was orbiting a thousand feet above Stiff “—remain on station.”

“One Oh Seven aye.”

“Showtime One Oh Two is on the way,” Stiff told the E-3 controller.

“That’s the spirit,” Sailor Karnow said from the rear cockpit.

“Shut up, babe. Just do your thing and keep the crap to yourself.”

“You got it, dickwick. I’m behind you all the way.”

The helicopter landed in the street in front of the television station and Mercedes stepped out. Ocho waved as it lifted off, leaving her standing there with her hair and skirt blowing wildly, clutching the videotape.

El Ocho, alive and well! It seemed like a miracle. Truly, she had thought he was dead, lost at sea.

“I have seen the tape,” Ocho had shouted over the noise of the helicopter as they rode above the lights of Havana. “Fidel wanted Hector to lead Cuba. His opinion will sway many people.”

Yes, she nodded, fighting back tears.

“Why did you give the tape to the Americans?”

“Vargas would have taken it from me,” she replied.

Ocho accepted that because he knew it was true. That tape would destroy Alejo Vargas.

“Make them show it on television,” Ocho had shouted. “We will get Hector out of prison.” He grinned broadly, showing all his teeth. The future was arriving all at once.

She watched the helicopter disappear into the night sky, then turned and walked into the television station.

One of the most horrifying threats any soldier can face is being in the bull’s-eye of a modern guided weapon. The stealth fighters were out tonight, dropping their weapons with extraordinary precision. The bombs came in too fast for the human eye to follow, especially in the light conditions prevailing in Havana this night. For the Cuban troops surrounding the old prison, it was as if a giant invisible sharpshooter were somewhere in the clouds hurling bombs.

The two bombs on the antiaircraft guns frightened the soldiers and made the crowd nervous. Watching from the Osprey, Jake Grafton thought for a moment the crowd might stampede: with this many people jamming the streets that would be a human disaster. Still, he could not take the risk the guns or tanks would open fire on the inbound helicopter or the Osprey, both of which he wanted to land on the prison’s roof.

Through the infrared viewer Jake could see the soldiers instinctively moving away from the tanks. He could see men getting out of the hatch, jumping to the ground, walking away.

On the street the crowd was also pushing back, crowding away from the old fortress.

Minutes passed and nothing happened. The packed rows of humanity on the street seemed to relax, to thin as the people instinctively sought their own space.

Jake heard the first bomb tone come on. An officer — Jake assumed he was an officer — climbed up on one of the tanks, waved his arms at his men.

The bomb tone ceased: the weapon was in the air.

Now the officer standing on the tank put his hands on his hips — Rita had the Osprey down to a thousand feet, only a mile from the building, set up to begin her transition to helicopter flight, so the activity in the prison courtyard was as clear to Jake as if he had been watching it on television.

“Angel One, this is Battlestar One. Come on in.”

“Roger that, Battlestar.”

The Cuban officer was still standing on the tank when it disappeared in a flash as the bomb hit it.

When the cloud of smoke and debris cleared, no one was moving within a hundred feet of the blasted tank, of which only tiny pieces remained. The bomb must have penetrated the armor in front of or behind the turret, Jake thought.

Now the second bomb tone ended. Cuban troops were running out of the prison complex through the main gate, which Jake belatedly realized was open. The men were dropping their weapons, throwing away their helmets and running as fast as their legs could carry them.

The five-hundred-pound bomb from Night Owl Four Four exploded in the gate and the running men disappeared in a flash.

“Put it on the roof,” Jake Grafton told Rita Moravia.

“Okay, I got this guy,” Sailor Karnow told Stiff Hardwick. “He’s bogey one.”

The symbol was right there in front of Stiff on the heads-up display.

“About thirty miles or so,” Sailor said matter-of-factly. She would sound bored if they were giving her an Academy Award. That was another thing about her Stiff didn’t like. Well, the truth was, he hated her guts, but he knew better than to say so in the new modern politically correct gender-neutral navy to which they both belonged. A few off-the-cuff remarks like that to the boys could torpedo a promising career.

“Lock the son of a bitch up,” Stiff told his RIO.

“You can’t shoot this dude,” Sailor said, still bored as hell. “There are four stealth fighters flapping around down there, three Ospreys and a helicopter, or did you sleep through the brief? You can’t shoot without the blessing of Battlestar Strike, which you ain’t likely to get.”

Twenty-five miles now. Stiff had the F-14 coming down like a lawyer on his way to hell, showing Mach 1.7 on the meter. He was fast crawling up this MiG’s ass.

“Don’t just sit there with your thumb up your heinie, honey. Get on the goddamn horn.”

“Battlestar Strike,” Sailor drawled on the radio. “This is Showtime One Oh Two. We got us a situation developing out here.”

Rita didn’t use her landing light until the last possible moment, snapping it on just in time to judge the final few seconds of her approach. As it was, only one of the demoralized snipers on the roof took a shot at the plane, a wild, unaimed shot that punched a hole in the fuselage near the port gear and spent itself against a structural member. Then the marines charging out of the back of the beast fired a shot over his head and the sniper threw down his rifle. The other snipers had already done so.

In seconds the chopper from United States came out of the darkness and set down alongside the V-22. Tommy Carmellini and Ocho Sedano came scrambling out.

All this was new to Ocho. With wide eyes he looked at the Osprey, at the marines, at the skyline of Havana, at the bonfires in the street and the tens of thousands of people.

Toad Tarkington appeared at Jake’s elbow. “I think I know how to get off this roof,” Toad said.

“Lead on,” Jake told him.

“Uh, Showtime One Oh Two, negative on the permission to shoot. That’s negatory, weapons red, over.”

“Strike, goddamn it,” Stiff Hardwick roared, “We’re sitting right on the tail of a goddamn MiG on his way to Havana to kill some of our people. I got the son of a bitch boresighted.”

“Showtime, there are too many friendlies over Havana. Weapons red, weapons red, over.”

“How about I pop this guy with my gun? Request weapons free for a gunshot. Over.”

“Wait.”

Stiff was off the power, idling along at about 400 knots, five miles behind the bogey. Of course, the bogey didn’t know he was there. The Cuban MiG-29s had very primitive electronic detection equipment, which consisted of a light and an auditory signal in the pilot’s ear. These devices told Carlos Corrado he was being looked at by an American fighter radar but failed to tell him where or how close the thing was, the two pieces of information that he needed the most.

As he closed on Havana and listened to the tone and watched the light, which didn’t even flicker, Carlos Corrado pondered on the irony of knowing American fighters were out there somewhere and not being able to do anything about it. If he turned on his radar, he would beacon to the Americans, who would then come at him like moths to a flame. His only chance was to keep the radar off.

If the Americans launched a weapon at him, he had a few flares he could punch off, of course, and some chaff. It was not much, but it might be enough. If it wasn’t, well, he had had a good life.

Carlos began looking right and left as he crossed the suburbs of the city. Amid all the lights he spotted some fires, and the center of the city was dark, without power, but all in all, Havana looked pretty normal. Amazing, that!

“Battlestar Strike, this is Showtime. Still waiting on that permission. This MiG is posing right here in front of me, begging for it. Do I zap it or what?”

“We are still checking with the air force,” Battlestar told Stiff, “trying to find out exactly where everyone is. Don’t want any accidents out there, do we?”

Stiff keyed the intercom. “Assholes,” he roared at Sailor Karnow. “They are all stupid fucking assholes.”

“I hear that,” said Sailor, sighing. “I’ve known it for years. I should have joined the WNBA.”

Toad Tarkington led the procession along the dark corridor of La Cabana prison. Apparently the power had not yet been restored after the high-voltage towers fell. Everyone following Toad had a flashlight.

The corridors were alive with echoing sound, shouts, curses, doors clanging, screams, shots.

“Hurry,” Grafton shouted, and ran toward the shouts.

As he suspected, the mob was in the building. As he and Toad rounded a corner, their flashlights fell on a solid wall of humanity dragging two uniformed officers. Carmellini shouted. The human wall halted.

“This is Ocho Sedano,” Carmellini shouted, “Hector’s brother. He is here to free Hector.”

The man dragging a fat officer by the collar of his uniform demanded, “Who are you?” Obviously drunk, this man had the commandante’s pistol in his hand, but he didn’t raise it or point it. The flashlights were partially blinding him, but he could still see the front end of Toad’s M-16.

“We are here at El Ocho’s request.” Carmellini proclaimed loudly. “He has asked for our help to free his brother Hector.”

The mob moved forward, probably in response to a surging push from the people behind.

“Give us the officers,” Jake said to Carmellini, “and we will bring Hector from his cell.” Carmellini shouted the message in Spanish.

The members of the mob didn’t like it, but they were facing six rifles in a narrow stone corridor. The people at the head of the mob released the officers and turned to shout at those behind them.

The marines grabbed the two officers and pushed them away along the corridor.

Carmellini talked earnestly to the officers. “They will lead us there,” he told Jake. “Colonel Santana arrived an hour ago. He was with the commandante until just a few minutes ago.”

“Hurry,” Jake Grafton urged. “The mob is out of control.” He had drawn the .357 Magnum he wore in a holster around his waist and now had it in his right hand.

“Showtime One Oh Two, Strike, the air force is having trouble confirming the location of all their machines.”

“Strike, this guy is hanging it out, begging for it, trolling right over the damn city looking for some white hats to zap. Are you gonna cry at the funeral after he kills some of our people?”

This comment was of course grossly out of line: Stiff Hardwick was a mere lieutenant — an O-3—and the decisions in Strike were being made by an officer with the rank of commander — O-5—or even captain — O-6. He was going to be in big trouble when he got back to the ship, but he didn’t care. The primary object of war was to kill the enemy, and by God, the son of a bitch was right there. He’d deal with the peckerheads later.

Another minute passed. They were over the heart of Havana now. The oily black slash of Havana Harbor was quite prominent, as were the dozens of fires that now surrounded the walls of the old La Cabana fortress.

“This guy is starting a turn,” Sailor told Stiff, referring of course to the bogey.

Carlos Corrado should have been searching the night sky over Havana for the planes he knew were here, but he wasn’t. He was only human. He was looking at the red warning light and listening to the buzz that told him that a hostile fighter’s radar was illuminating his aircraft.

The light and tone had been on for five minutes now. The miracle was that Carlos Corrado was still alive. Five minutes in front of an aggressive American fighter pilot was about six lifetimes … and still the American hadn’t pulled the trigger!

Carlos didn’t know why, but he suspected the reason had something to do with the fact they were tooling over the rooftops of Havana.

Ocho Sedano and the Americans ran through the corridors of La Cabana Prison until they came to a massive steel gate. It was closed but unlocked; they used the commandante’s keys to lock it behind them. Then they entered a cellblock full of men screaming to be freed. Hundreds of arms reached through the bars, trying to reach the Americans.

The guards led them to Hector, who was in a cell in a corridor off the main cellblock. “They have no key to the cell,” Carmellini told Jake.

“Use C-4. Blow it,” the admiral said.

Hector reached through the bars and got his hands on Ocho. They hugged while Jake Grafton held the flashlight and Tommy Carmellini set the explosive.

“Have you seen Santana?” Carmellini asked Hector.

“Yes. He was here.”

“Where is he now?”

“He heard you coming and ran.”

When the plastic explosive blew the lock apart on Hector’s cell, Ocho jerked the door open and hugged him fiercely. “I apologize, Hector,” he said. “Please forgive me.”

Jake Grafton dragged them apart. “There is no time,” he shouted, and pushed them toward the corridor.

The sounds of the mob tearing at the steel bars that barred the way into the cell block could be heard above the shouts of the men in the cells.

Toad led his party the other way. Another door, precious seconds wasted while the officers fumbled for a key, then they were through and going up a stairway. More stairs, then along a long, dark corridor lit only by flashlights.

As they rounded a turn someone ahead fired a shot at them. The bullet spanged off a wall, and miraculously failed to connect with human flesh.

Suddenly sure, Tommy Carmellini told Jake, “It’s Santana. You go on. I’ll get the bastard.”

“We don’t have time for personal vendettas,” Jake Grafton snapped.

“I’m a civilian, Grafton. I can take care of myself. Go on!”

Jake led his party onward.

When they came out onto the roof the Osprey’s position lights and flashing anticollision light revealed a crowd of at least three hundred people. They completely surrounded the Osprey and helo and the marines with rifles who held them off. The pilots must have shut down the engines due to the large number of people nearby. Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt walked back and forth behind the marines, an imposing martial figure if ever there was one. Fortunately no one in the crowd seemed to be armed.

Jake and Toad forced their way through the crowd.

It was Ocho who stepped in front of the crowd and began to speak. “This is my brother Hector, the next president of Cuba.”

The crowd cheered lustily.

“I am El Ocho. I wish to know if you love Cuba?”

“Sí!” they roared.

“Do you believe in Cuba?”

“Sí!”

“Will you fight for Cuba?”

“Sí!”

“Will you follow me and put Hector Sedano in the presidential palace?”

“Sí! Sí! Sí!” The crowd breathed the word over and over and swarmed around Ocho.

“Come,” said Jake Grafton, and pulled Hector toward the Osprey.