Cuba (61 page)

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 tapeea”…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 baok tears.

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

“Vargas would have taken it from meea”…she replied.

Ocho accepted that because he knew it was true. That

tape would destroy Alejo Vargas.

“Make them show it on televisionea”…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 ‘p instinctively sought their own space.

Jake heard the first bomb tone come on.

An officer Jake assumed he was”…an

officerclimbed up on one of the tanks, waved his

arms at his men. his

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

Now the officer standing on the tank put his hands on his

hipsRita 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 roofea”…Jake Grafton told

Rita Moravia.

“Okay, I got this guyea”…Sailor Karnow told

Stiff Hardwick. “He’s bogey one.”

The symbol was right there in front of Stiff on the

headsup display.

“About thirty miles or soea”…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 genderneutral navy to which they both

belonged. A few off-thecuff remarks like that to the

boys could torpedo a promising career.

“Lock the son of a bitch upea”…Stiff told his

RIO.

“You can’t shoot this dudeea”…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 MiGo’s ass.

“Don’t just sit there with your thumb up your heinie,

honey. Get on the goddamn horn.”

“Battlestar Strikeea”…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 thfc 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 roofea”…Toad

said.

“Lead onea”…Jake told him.

“Uh, Showtime One Oh Two, negative on the

permission to shoot. That’s negatory, weapons red,

over.”

“Strike, goddamn itea”…Stiff Hardwick roared,

“We’re sitting right on the tail of a goddamn

MiGo 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

MiGo-29’s 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 MiGo is posing right here in

front of me, begging for it. Do I zap it

or what?”

“We are still checking with the air forceea”…Battlestar

told Stiff, “trying to find out exactly where

everyone is. Don’t want any accidents out there,

do we?”

Stiff keyed the intercom. “Assholesea”…he roared

at Sailor Karnow. “They are all stupid

fucking assholes.”

“I hear thatea”…sd 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.

“Hurryea”…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 Sedanoea”…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 officersea”…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 thereea”…he told Jake.

“Colonel Santana arrived an hour ago. He

was with the commandante until just a few minutes ago.”

“Hurryea”…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

hi 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 lieutenantan O-3and the

decisions in Strike were being made by an officer with the

rank

of commanderO-5or even captainO-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 turnea”…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