Guardian of Lies

SIXTY-THREE

After separating from the cargo carrier, the rental truck continued west for almost a mile until it approached a high-arching bridge over what appeared to be a big harbor dotted with yachts and large ships. The truck moved along at full speed, staying with the traffic as it climbed onto the bridge, two lanes in each direction separated by a concrete divider.

Yakov could see what appeared to be a kind of fairyland through the mist ahead of them. Below the bridge on the left were white sand beaches and a nestled cove harboring luxury boats, brigantines, and other exotic sailing craft.

Straight ahead there was what looked like an island except for the endless strip of sand that disappeared into the haze along the ocean to the south. The area directly across the bridge was awash in lush vegetation, a green oasis of palms and billowing eucalyptus. Though he didn’t know it, Nitikin was looking at a golf course. In the distance he could see the broad blue expanse of the Pacific. And laid right at its sandy shore, the fantasy touch of a layered wedding cake, an immense wooden structure with red roofs in various shapes, its round one topped by a cupola itself capped by a large American flag. It was the Hotel del Coronado. The place where the film Some Like It Hot had been shot back in the sixties.

None of this meant a thing to Alim. He was seated next to the Russian on the front seat with only one thing on his mind.

Off to the right, a little over two miles away, Alim could see the immense flat expanse of the ship tied up to the dock as four fireboats out in the channel shot arcs of colored water, red, white, and blue, high into the air in celebration. It was the moment Afundi had worked for since that morning in Havana at Fidel’s linen-covered dining table, when through sleepy eyes he first saw the photograph of the aircraft carrier the Americans called the USS Ronald Reagan, the viper that had nursed the warplanes that killed Alim’s mother and father.

For months, information had come from comrades-in-arms around the world tracking the progress of the ship as it moved from one ocean to the next. Reports were sent to Havana from newspapers and online blog sites reporting the current location of the carrier and its strike force.

From his camp in Colombia, Alim devoured the news, like Ahab chasing the great white whale. At one point he was nearly sick with stress when he read reports that the carrier was expected to proceed to its home base, restock its stores of supplies, and return to sea before the bomb could be ready.

But as Castro had told him that morning, this was destiny. A typhoon swept across the far Pacific and the great carrier, which was on its way home, was diverted to the Philippines. According to American propaganda the ship and its devil fleet were assigned to fly aid missions carrying food, water, and medicine to stricken islanders. Despite all of the Americans’ lies, Afundi didn’t care as long as the ship was delayed.

Then ten days ago he’d received the final piece of information that the Reagan had weighed anchor in the Philippines. Two sailors on leave the night before had told some girls in Cebu that they would call them from San Diego the minute they reached port, and gave them the date the carrier would arrive back home.

After more than six months at sea, the crew of fifty-five hundred, more than were killed in the World Trade Center on 9/11, now lined her decks for the arrival. Thousands of family members and friends were gathered along the pier in the shadow of the ship. This did not include the entire carrier strike group now in the harbor, missile cruisers and destroyers, frigates and supply ships, along with part of the carrier’s air wing, now down on the field at North Island Naval Air Station.

The destruction from the single atomic blast would dwarf the events at Pearl Harbor. Worse for the Americans, who seemed to suck their strength from their vanquished enemies, there would be no identifiable foe to whom they could attach blame, no place where they could scratch their itch for vengeance. They would have to lick their wounds and complain of injustice to a world that no longer cared.

As the truck rumbled across the bridge and down past the open ticket kiosk on Coronado, Alim saw the promise of the future, the destruction of the great powers at the hands of single individuals such as himself. With a single weapon in the back of a truck, they could now deliver death and destruction on a level never before dreamed of in history. If the gun was the great equalizer of men, then the infliction of nuclear terror was the ultimate counterweight for oppressed people everywhere. It was the dawning of a new age and Alim Afundi was about to give it birth.