Cuba (63 page)

Stiff Hardwick was climbing through five thousand

feet at full power when he heard that

transmission. Fortunately he had committed a

map of the Havana area to memory, so he knew

precisely where Jose Marti International lay.

He cut the power and lowered the nose.

“What in hell do you think you’re doing,

Stiff”…”…Sailor demanded.

“Shut up.”

“We barely got enough fuel to make the tanker as it

is, pea brain. You go swarming around down here for a

few more minutes begging that Cuban to give you-the

shaft and we’ll be swimming home.”

“I’m gonna get that Cuban son of a bitch.

Gonna strafe him on the ground. Gonna kill that

bastard deader than last week’s beer.”

Sailor Karnow knew the pilot was serious. Here

was a

frustrated man if ever she had met one. As the

plane dove for the black hole that was Jose’

Marti International, she tried to reason with Stiff:

“You can’t shoot the guy on the ground at a

civilian airport. There’s no lights down there,

you might kill a bunch of civilians!”

“There he is! I can see the fucking guy

taxiinghe’s still got his landing light on!

There he is!”

Sailor Karnow was losing her patience.

“You pull that trigger, Jake Grafton will cut

your balls off, you silly son of a bitch!”

His

Stiff Hardwick knew the jig was up. Sailor

was right he hated women who were always right. He reached

up and safetied the master arm switch. And

kept the Tomcat coming down.

Edged the throttles forward as he dropped lower and

lower, boresighting that barely moving plane down there

with the single landing light shining forward. The needle on the

airspeed indicator crept past Mach 1.

The radio altimeter deedled, he kept going

lower….

“Don’t fly into the ground, you idiotff”…Sailor

pleaded from the rear cockpit.

Thfe fear in her voice probably saved both their

lives. Stiff eased back on the stick just a

smidgen, an almost microscopic amount, so the

F-14 rose another ten feet above the ground as

it roared over Carlos Corrado’s taxiing

MiGo-29 like a giant supersonic missile.

The American fighter passed a mere four feet

over the MiGo’s tail; the shock wave shattered the

MiGo’s canopy.

Then Stiff pulled the stick back in his lap and

lit the burners and went rocketing upward like a bat

out of hell.

“Better get on the horn and get us a tanker,

baby, or you’re gonna be my date in a life

raft tonight.”

Sailor had the last word. “Honest

to God, dickwick, you oughta think about taking up

another line of work.”

Tommy Carmellini wondered if he had managed

to put a bullet into Santana. That was a lot

to hope for, but still… three shots, and the man no more

than five, six feet away?

With luck.

A man needs luck as he goes through life.

Life is timing, and timing is- experience plus

luck.

Carmellini wondered just how much experience sneaking

along dark corridors Santana had had through the

years. He hadn’t impressed Carmellini as the

sneaking type. One never knew, though.

He found himself moving slower and slower, listening with his

eyes closed caret concentrating. He could

hear…

Breathing. Corning from somewhere ahead. Definitely

breathing.

Jake Grafton had Rita circle out over the

harbor while he talked to other airplanes he had

inbound. After a few minutes, he told her to fly

toward the university.

Looking through the infrared viewer, he could see that the

streets around the university were deserted.

Not a car or truck moving, none parked, no people.

Alejo Vargas was down there, all right.

Jake got out of the copilot’s seat and went aft

to talk to Hector Sedano, who was sitting beside

Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt. Jake

pulled one of the Spanish-speaking marines along

to translate.

“Do you know of the biological-warfare laboratory

in the science building of the university?”

No, Hector didn’t. Jake took a minute

to explain.

“My government has sent me to destroy the polio

viruses that are in that lab, and the equipment that was used

to grow them. Do you have any objection to me doing that?”

Hector did not, as long as innocent lives were not

lost unnecessarily.

Talking loudly over the aircraft’s high internal

noise, Jake continued while the young marine, a

buck sergeant, translated: “I promise you,

we will proceed with all due

care. The stakes are very high, those viruses must be

destroyed. If you will join me in this humanitarian

effort representing the new Cuban government, I

believe the job can be done with a minimum loss of

life.”

‘Tell me of this laboratoryea”…Hector Sedano

demanded. “What you know of it, and how it came to be.”

The feeling was coming back in Tommy Carmellini’s

left arm. It hurt like hell now, like someone had

tried to carve on his shoulder with a dull knife.

Ignore the arm. Listen!

He froze. He hadn’t realized it, but there were

cells on both- sides of the corridor, cells with

open doors.

Santana must be in one of them. Which one?

A sound like a sigh.

He heard it! From the left, maybe ten feet.

Frozen like a chunk of solid ice, Carmellini

didn’t move. He continued to breathe, but very

shallowly, taking all the time in the world.

Minutes passed. How many he couldn’t say.

He could hear the murmur of the mob somewhere below. No

doubt they had turned all the prisoners loose.

The other man was being extremely quiet.

Extraordinarily so.

Carmellini finally began moving, reluctantly,

ever so slowly, like the shadow of the sun as it marches

across a stone floor. And he made about the same

amount of noise.

.he was in the cell, feeling his way …

when his left foot touched something that shouldn’t be there.

Like a cat he reacted, the pistol booming faster

than thought.

In the muzzle flash he saw that Santana lay

stretched on his back on the floor, his eyes open

to the ceiling.

The bastard was dead.

From the cockpit Jake Grafton could see the

crowds below on the streets. Rita had the Osprey

flying at 2,000 feet, and

*

Jake could see the swarms of people with his naked eye,

without using the infrared viewer, though he used it

occasionally to check on the progress of the crowd.

Rita swung the Osprey over the university

district, and he picked out the science building.

He watched the mass of humanity flow into the

district, surge along toward the science building.

He used the viewer, steadied it carefully and

cranked up the magnification. Yes, the knot of

humanity at the front of the crowd, that had to be around

Ocho. El Ocho, as the Cubans called him.

The boy was fearless. This afternoon when Jake explained

to Ocho that there was a strong probability that the

soldiers would refuse to fire on the

civilians, might even disobey their officers if

ordered to fire, Ocho merely nodded.

Perhaps the ordeal in the ocean had toughened Ocho, or

perhaps he had always been impervious to fear. That

emotion affected people in an extraordinary variety of

ways, Jake knew.

Looking through the viewer it was difficult to be sure,

but apparently soldiers were joining the crowd with Ocho

as he walked along.

He wanted to let Hector accompany Ocho, but

his better judgment told him no. A single

sniper, one frightened soldier, and the last best hope

of Cuba might be dead in the street. With the

viruses still in that lab, that was a risk Jake

Grafton was not yet prepared to take.

As he watched, he wished he were with Ocho. That

walk must be sublime, he thought.

Ocho Sedano knew a great many people because he had

spent years accompanying his brother to speeches,

sitting in planning sessions, helped him dig

holes to hide weapons. Many more people, however, knew

Ocho. Every Cuban between eight and eighty knew of the

star pitcher who threw the sizzling fastbalis and hit

home runs when his turn

came to bat. Many people recognized him,

shouted to him as he walked along, then decided

to shake his hand and join the throng behind him.

As the human river turned the corner onto the

avenue that led to the university, a knot of soldiers

left the shelter of a doorway and came toward

Ocho. He didn’t stop, kept striding along the

center of the street.

“Haltff”…the senior officer shouted. He was a

major. “You are entering a military area! You can go

no farther!”

Ocho didn’t even slow his pace. The soldiers

had to join the crowd to keep from being trampled.

“You! Stop these people! This is a secure area,

by order of Alejo Vargas.”.

“We will not stop.”…Ocho laughed. “Do you think you can

stop the sun from rising?”

The soldiers hurried along, trying to talk

to Ocho, who refused to slow his pace.

“You are El Ocho”…”…one of the younger soldiers asked.

“The days of Vargas are over, my friendea”…Ocho

explained. “Give away your gun and come along with

us.”

The sheer numbers and weight of the people pushing along

frightened the major, who had a pistol in his hand.

Even as his subordinates handed their

weapons to the nearest people in civilian clothes, he

placed himself in front of Ocho, who didn’t stop

walking,

“I order you to stop, Sedanoff”…he shouted, and

pointed” the pistol at Ocho’s head.

“You would make me a martyour, would you”…”…Ocho asked

the major, who was trying to match Ocho’s stride.

“Look around you, man. No one can stop them.”

The major fired the pistol into the air. His face was

drawn and pale, almost bloodless. “Stop or I

shoot you down, as God is my witness.”

“Mi amigo,”

said Ocho Sedano, “for days at sea I was ready

to die; all the fear drained from me. There is none in

my heart now. My death will not stop these people: nothing can

stop the turning of the earth. Still, if you feel you

must kill me, make your peace with God and pull the

trigger.”

Then he smiled.

El Ocho was a madman, the major realized. Or

a saint. The major wiped at the perspiration on his

forehead, and handed Ocho the pistol.

Ocho passed the weapon on. He put his arm around

the major’s shoulders. “Comeea”…he said.-“We will

walk to the promised land together.”

Like a wall of water rushing along a dry arroyo,

the human river flowed along the avenue toward the

university as airplanes droned through the darkness

overhead.

In the foyer of the science building, Alejo Vargas

heard the airplanes. He looked at the

politicians and young soldiers who waited

silently behind him, blocking the doors to the stairs

and the elevator, and he looked at his aides, who were

nervously looking out windows, trying not to fidget.

Where was Santana?

The man should be here: he was Alej6 Vargas’s one

loyal friend on this earth.

Vargas paced back and forth, stood in the doorway

and listened to the airplanes, wondered if the troops

he had hidden in the surrounding buildings were loyal,

would still fight. Over two thousand heavily armed men were

waiting for the Americans. This time the Yanquis would

not escape: this time there would be prisoners to parade

before the cameras, vanquished foes to kneel at his

feet as Cuba cheered. This time …

A car rocketed up to the front of the building and a

man leaped out, a uniformed colonel with the

“Department of State Security. He ran up the

stairs, came running through the door, saw

Vargas and ran toward him.

“The televisionea”…he said breathlessly. “On the

television, they are showing a tape of Fidel.”

“Yes”…”…sd Vargas, his brows knitting.

“Fidel made the tape before he died. He wants

Hector Sedano to be the president after him.”

“What”…”…Vargas didn’t believe a word of it.

“They run the tape, which takes about six minutes,

then run it again, over and over and over.”

“That’s impossibleea”…Vargas said, turning toward the

politicians, who had moved closer. “Fidel

made no such tape before he died. He wanted

to make a tape naming me as his successor, but

his-illness prevented it.”

“They are showing a tape on televisionea”…the

colonel insisted. “Fidel says the nation must

change, and Hector Sedano is the man to lead that

change.”

“It’s a trickff”…Vargas roared. “The Yanqui

CIA is playing a trick on us.”

Every face was openly skeptical.

“Fidel is dead! Don’t you people understand that”…”…A

rising symphony of babbling voices and helicopter

noises came through the open door.