The Hamlet Warning (18 page)

He became aware of a tingling in his left arm. A ricochet had caught him below the elbow. He was bleeding profusely. An artery had been severed. He slipped off his belt and was preparing a tourniquet when he heard Johnson’s signal — a three-round burst. Loomis quickly stepped around the brace beam and sprayed the end of the engine room while Johnson moved up. Loomis then dashed to the next brace while Johnson covered him.

Loomis waited impatiently, watching. He glanced down at his arm. He was losing a lot of blood. Figuring he couldn’t wait any longer, he cut loose with a three-round burst, signaling Johnson. When Johnson’s gun took up the fire, Loomis plunged into the aisle shooting, advancing. He saw a muzzle blast and shifted his fire. A dark shape sank to the deck. He heard Johnson charging on the catwalk, firing down on the gunmen at close range, bouncing the bullets off the heavy bulkhead behind them. They attempted to flee in a desperate gamble. Loomis saw their target: a hole fifteen feet beyond them, where the deckplate had been removed to pump the bilge. He knew that if they reached the bilge spaces, they’d be difficult to hit. He cut the last two men down. They fell, sprawling, their machine pistols cartwheeling across the steel deck.

Johnson came clattering down the ladder. “This all of them?” he asked.

“All I saw,” Loomis said.

Gun at ready, Johnson checked the bodies. “All four dead as lead can make them,” he said. “I guess that’s Smitty over there. He’s dead, too.” He noticed Loomis’s sleeve. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Nick,” Loomis said. He put his Heckler down and reached for the pressure point above his elbow.

“Well, I’d sure hate to see you get a real wound,” Johnson said. “You might bleed a little.” He turned and yelled for the marines to send down a medic. He pulled a knife and ripped Loomis’s sleeve, exposing the wound. “Doesn’t look too bad,” he agreed. “I guess you’ll live, if you’ve got enough blood.”

Feeling suddenly weak, Loomis leaned back against the engine. Johnson walked over to the bodies. “Those fellows sure are funny-looking Latins,” he said.

“Maybe it’s because they’re Arabs,” Loomis told him.

“Arabs? No shit?” Johnson rolled one over with his boot. “If that don’t beat all,” he said. “I thought we were wrapping up this can of worms. Now it looks like we’ve just opened another one.”

Johnson was right. Octopus quickly identified the four Arabs as the terrorists who had destroyed the Israeli airliner at Tel Aviv ten days before. Larson apparently was transporting them to safety. He was well known in international crime circles as the man to see for smooth smuggling operations. Langley surmised that the Arabs were to be landed by raft on the coast of South America.

The ship search was concluded. No trace of the nuclear material was found.

“It went aboard in Lisbon,” Johnson said. “It isn’t aboard now. There’s only one way to find out in a hurry what happened to it.”

“What do you have in mind?” Loomis asked, knowing.

“I’ve taken the liberty of bringing in three interrogation specialists. Let’s give them a crack at Larson.”

“What sort of subtle, sophisticated interrogation techniques are in vogue these days?” Loomis asked. “Drawing and quartering?”

The sarcasm was wasted on Johnson. “Larson will walk out without a mark on him,” he said.

“And probably not enough brains left to piss in his pants without help,” Loomis said. “All right. Take him. But spare me the details.”

They returned to their headquarters at the Jaragua. While Johnson reported the results of the search to Washington, Loomis called El Jefe, who didn’t seem surprised over the failure. He had been following its progress, hour by hour, and had concluded much earlier that the material was not aboard.

And now, he had news of his own.

“María Elena is gone,” he said. “She walked right out the front door and apparently just disappeared.”

Loomis felt his last bit of energy draining away in an overwhelming sense of helplessness.

“Just like Mary Poppins,” he said.

Chapter 20

Minus
3
Days
,
02
:
55
Hours

The planes came over San Francisco de Macoris on the average of one every ten minutes. The C-47s continued on across town to the airfield to land supplies, but occasionally an F-100 Super Sabre or Mirage jet returned to strafe. The rebel forces were well protected, for the most part, and the strafing did little damage. Ramón knew that the whole operation was psychological. But he didn’t know what to do about it.

He sat at a long teakwood table in the basement of the huge old church, waiting impatiently for his advisers to arrive, certain that each hour of indecision brought his entire movement closer to disaster.

Ramón was fearful that his revolution had moved too rapidly, too successfully. Sniper teams he had dispatched merely to harass and to worry government forces instead had engaged and won battles. Strategic enclaves he had envisioned as strong points had been expanded through sheer enthusiasm, and now the very size of his holdings endangered the whole revolution.

The victories had come too soon. He wasn’t prepared for the tremendous responsibilities. His program had called for a campaign of several months, gradually building his strength in the north, allowing him time to assimilate supply sources before moving on the capital. His orderly plan of advance included step-by-step occupation of plantations, factories, food plants, and warehouses. Now, the map of conquest was inflated, hodgepodge, and dangerously out of balance. He had entire cities at his disposal, but the price of victory was beyond his means. He had to find some way of feeding and supplying thousands.

Ramón held his breath as a Super Sabre, more aggressive than most, passed low overhead, strafing the streets. He heard .50-caliber shells splattering against the old church walls, and the rain of glass and plaster on the tile floors above. For a heart-stopping moment, he feared that his exact location was known and that a cluster of bombs might follow the bullets. But reason told him his whereabouts could not possibly be known. He himself had not chosen the site of his strategy conference until a few minutes ago. His advisers hadn’t been informed. They had been ordered to report to various safehouses around town, where they would be picked up by a single driver, who alone would know the meeting place.

Dust and powdered plaster drifted down from the ceiling, blanketing the surface of the table with fine debris. Alfredo came hurrying down from the sanctuary above to make certain Ramón was safe. Ramón forced a smile of reassurance. He calmly checked his watch.

“It is time,” he said. “Send the car. Tell the driver to watch the planes and to stop for cover when necessary. But we must hurry.”

Alfredo trotted back upstairs. Ramón wiped the dust from the table and noticed with irritation that he had a tremor in his hands. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. He waited impatiently until Alfredo returned.

“See if the good father has food,” Ramón said. 

Alfredo returned a few minutes later with rice, beans, and the father’s apologies that there was not more.

“This will do,” Ramón said. “Perhaps we can feed the multitudes later.”

By the time the first of his advisers arrived, he had finished eating. After drinking two cups of strong black coffee laced with rum, he felt much better. Within thirty minutes, the eight members of his general staff had assembled. The ninth, he was informed, had been killed during the final assault on the police barracks in Santiago.

Ramón called the meeting to order.

“We have arrived at a crucial point in our revolution,” he told them. “If we go ahead, we risk all. We’re not prepared. Yet we can’t wait. We can’t sit back and hold on to what we’ve won. And if we retreat, pull back, we will lose momentum we may never regain. I would like to hear your views.”

“We can’t stop now,” said Ricardo Morales, the hatchet-faced lawyer from Santiago. “We have El Jefe reeling. Let’s move on the Distrito Nacional.”

“That’s exactly what El Jefe would want us to do,” said Julio Paredes, the portly, asthmatic doctor from San Francisco de Macoris. “Most of his forces are concentrated in the
distrito
. There he has tanks, air power, artillery. And he knows that as long as he holds the capital, he holds the government.”

“We also have stronger forces in the
distrito
,” Professor Mario Salamanca reminded them. “And the discipline is better. Our snipers have remained snipers. Our sappers have been content to hit and run. And we are still living on El Jefe’s economy. No one has to feed us.”

Ramón moved to block the haggling. “Has your staff devised the battle plan I requested?”

“In detail,” the Professor said. He hunted in his briefcase, unfolded a large map of the
distrito
, and stood to spread it on the table. Adjusting his heavy horn-rims and brushing an errant mop of unruly hair out of his eyes, the Professor spread his feet into his lecturing stance. “Instead of concentrating on the Duarte Bridge, as was done in past revolutions, we propose to focus instead on the Old Town, from here to here, along El Conde from the Gate to the river,” he said. “The approaches to the bridge will be blocked to the east, halting traffic from the military base at San Isidro. We will concentrate strong forces at this point here, on the Boca Chica highway, and here, on Las Americas at this junction.”

“The sea on one side, the river on the other,” Doctor Paredes said. “It would be a trap.”

“All our forces would be concentrated on two fronts,” Professor Salamanca pointed out.

“The gunboats and destroyers could shell from the river, or from the sea,” Doctor Paredes said.

“That possibility remains wherever we fight in the
distrito
,”the Professor countered. “If El Jefe chooses, his destroyers can stand at sea and shell the entire town.”

Ramón again stepped into the debate. “What are the chances for assassination?”

All eyes turned to the Professor. He hesitated, adjusting his horn-rims carefully, smoothing his scruffy beard. When he spoke his voice was firm. “Minimal. El Jefe never leaves his quarters. Never. But we have options. El Jefe has placed the entire
distrito
defense under command of Colonel Escortia. If we remove him at the opening of the battle, El Jefe’s defense structure will be thrown into confusion. There is much infighting, much jealousy, in the upper echelons of his military. El Jefe would lose valuable time in re-establishing line of command. And there is another possibility. The
norteamericano
, Loomis, has become something of a security blanket for El Jefe, psychologically as well as in fact. Loomis travels freely in the streets. An ambush could be arranged. His death would contribute much toward El Jefe’s eventual decision to abandon the fight. And the country.”

Ramón was impressed. If one couldn’t reach the kingpin, the destruction of the props might suffice. Yet he hadn’t thought of that possibility himself.

“Can you kill them?” he asked.

“Colonel Escortia is careless,” the Professor said. “He moves on a schedule, and his daily routine varies little. He can be killed. Almost in any time-span. Loomis would be more difficult. But not impossible. His activities are erratic. He used to spend much time in the whorehouses. But he hasn’t been there much lately. He once shunned other
norteamericanos
, excepting now and then one of the women from the divorce flights. But now he seems to have invited some
norteamericanos
into the country. He has set up a sort of headquarters in the Jaragua and spends time there with them and with other members of El Jefe’s staff. But he is also careless, and perhaps arrogant. He could be watched and killed.”

Ramón felt a vague stirring of prescience. For some time he had sensed that some unknown factor was affecting the government, altering decisions. The Professor’s words provided the first solid clue.

“Tell us more about these headquarters,” he said.

Professor Salamanca shrugged and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “It is something new,” he said. “Security around the Jaragua is tight. We do know that they’ve installed special communications equipment of some kind. There is a lot of activity. At least a dozen
norteamericanos
have flown in by commercial jet, and we’ve had reports of unmarked planes setting down briefly to unload both passengers and cargo. Yesterday, a tanker anchored out past the breakwater. There are reports that the
Duarte
fired a shell across the tanker’s bow, but I cannot confirm this. As you know, the
Duarte
often fires its guns in practice. And I understand that with the five-inch gun, once you have loaded, the only practical way to unload is to fire it. But we do know that Loomis, some of the
norteamericanos
, and two dozen or more Dominicans went aboard. The ship’s crew was taken to the university, and as far as we can determine, they are still there. We don’t know what’s happening.”

Ramón allowed his anger to surface. He struck the table with his fist. “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

The Professor seemed undisturbed by the outburst. “It happened only yesterday,” he said. “And we didn’t know where you were.”

“But the headquarters, the
norteamericanos
landing. You should have reported these things.”

“We weren’t certain of anything,” the Professor said. “If I reported all the vague rumors that come to me, I would have time for nothing else.”

“Do you suppose they’re preparing for intervention by the United States?” Doctor Paredes asked.

“The
norteamericanos
undoubtedly are CIA,” Ramón agreed. “But what could the tanker have to do with it? I don’t understand that at all.”

“If El Jefe has opened the door to the CIA, intervention won’t be far behind,” Doctor Paredes predicted.

“My information from Washington is that they won’t intervene, no matter what the provocation,” Ramón said. “Criticism was heavy after the last occupation — in sixty-five. Much has been written that President Johnson received bad information from both State and the CIA and that the occupation was unnecessary. And of course the intervention in Vietnam almost wrecked the country. I personally don’t think any American president would risk it, no matter what pressures he might be under.”

“Well, they’re up to something, apparently,” Doctor Paredes said.

“We may be jumping to conclusions,” lawyer Morales pointed out. “It might be something that has nothing to do with the revolution.”

Ramón considered that possibility. “The communications equipment worries me,” he said. “The tie-up undoubtedly is to Washington.”

“Special Projects Division, CIA, perhaps,” Doctor Paredes said. “Maybe they’re preparing to direct El Jefe’s military operations and provide so-called specialists, as they did in the earliest days in Vietnam.”

“I don’t think so,” Ramón said. “El Jefe has resisted them for years. Why would he suddenly do a complete about-face?”

“It must have something to do with the tanker,” Morales said. “Perhaps a smuggling operation.”

“That is likely,” Ramón agreed. “I think there is a strong possibility that it has nothing to do with the revolution.”

“But we must keep it in mind,” Doctor Paredes said. “We must not forget the possible ramifications.”

“Agreed,” Ramón said.

“I don’t think we should let it deter us from our path,” Professor Salamanca said.

Ramón smiled. “And what is our path, Professor? The capital? Let’s examine the pros and cons. What would be the worst thing that could happen if we move on the capital?”

“Failure,” Doctor Paredes said. “Total defeat.”

“Impossible,” Professor Salamanca said. “Absolutely impossible. We’ll never be more ready.”

“We can’t hold out here long,” Morales said. “And if we fall back, the government troops will increase the pressure on Santiago and in Santo Domingo.”

Professor Salamanca nodded. “And by the same token, if we move on the capital, the government will pull troops from both Santiago and San Francisco, relieving pressure on both. Our forces in the Cibao would then be able to hold until the issue in the capital is decided.”

Ramón tended to agree. “Let me recapitulate,” he said. “We concur that we cannot hold indefinitely the ground we have gained. The pressure is too formidable. And we cannot retreat. The psychological setback would be too severe, perhaps disastrous. Our only recourse is to maintain our forward momentum by moving on the capital with an all-out attack. Is there any disagreement?”

There was none.

“On the whole, Professor, I endorse your proposed plan of battle,” Ramón said. “I appreciate the element of surprise. The government forces will be expecting pressure at the Duarte Bridge. This plan will isolate their strong points. Yet, by controlling the eastern approaches, we can control the bridge. I only see one serious disadvantage. Once fighting begins in earnest, our troops will be isolated, boxed in by the river, the sea, and the two fighting fronts. How do you propose to supply our forces throughout sustained fighting?”