by Cuba (lit)
revolution the average wage was ten dollars a
month, girls from all over Cuba flocked
to Havana to prostitute themselves on the streets,
everything necessary for a decent life was outrageously
expensive or
unavailable at any price. The social justice
that the communists had promised was as far
away as ever: the pain and misery that blighted and made
wretched millions of lives had not brought that goal
one step closer.
The tourist attractions were the supreme irony, of
course. These monuments to greed and sins of the flesh were
owned and operated by the socialist state to attract
hard currency. The dollars were brought in and spent
here by decadent capitalists who earned the money
exploiting the workers of the world somewhere else.
If Karl Marx only knew. With the banners of
social justice flying in the blue tropic sky,
the Cubans had joined the Pied Piper of the Sierra
Maestra as he marched bravely down the road
to hell. The crumbling buildings, decrepit old
cars, hookers on every discorner, universal
hopelessness it looked as if the whole parade had
almost arrived. caret
Very curious, William Henry Chance thought.
Curious as hell.
From this vantage point he could see all of it, his
whole life, as if it were a play being performed before
him. The memories came back vivid and clear,
the scenes scrolling before his eyes. The mistakes and
lost opportunities and petty vendettas played
endlessly, inevitably, and he lived it
all again, powerless to change a word or gesture.
He was in pain these days, a lot of it, and the doctor
this morning had given him a strong narcotic. Now
he floated, half-asleep, the pain that had doubled
him into the fetal position now a tolerable dull
ache. Even as his mind raced, his body relaxed.
Mercedes Sedano sat in a chair in the darkened
room beside the bed, looking into the gloomy darkness and
lost in her own thoughts.
She reached for Fidel when he moaned and put her
hand on his forehead. He had always liked the sensual
coolness of her fingers. Her touch now seemed
to quiet him. He relaxed again, then tossed
restlessly as the ghosts of the
past paraded through the recesses of his mind.
An hour later, his eyes opened, though they didn't
focus. Finally the head moved and the eyes sought her
out.
Fidel Castro said nothing, merely looked.
He could feel the narcotic wearing off. The pain was
coming back. He opened his mouth to ask for the doctor,
then thought better of it.
He licked his lips. "I want to make a
videotapeea"...he whispered, barely audible.
"Are you strong enough?"
"For a little while, I could be, I think. It must be
done."
"What will you say?"
"I don't know exactly. I need to think about it."
"When do you wish to do this tape?"
"Soon, I think, or never."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes, tomorrow. Tell the doctor. I must be alert
tomorrow, if only for a little while."
"Why?"
"I want-to dictate my political will."
She leaned forward and put her face next to his.
"Can you visit a moment with me?"
"Te quiero, mujer."
"y yo te adoro, me viejo."
"We will talk for a little bit, then the doctor and the
needle."...He was perspiring now, his body becoming
tense.
"I am being selfish. I will call the doctor
now."
"In a moment. I want to tell you... I love
you. You have been the rock I have held on to the last
few years."
She wiped away her tears and kissed him. -
Then he said, "I have made many mistakes
in my life, but I have always tried to do what I thought
best for Cuba. Always. Without fail."
"Why do you think I love you so?"
"I want the Cuban people to remember me well.
They are my children."
"They will never forget."
"I must help them march into the future."
He drew his knees to his chest. His eyes were
bright, perspiration coursed from his forehead and soaked
into the pillow.
"Tomorrowea"...he whispered. "I will think. Get the
doctor now."
She squeezed his hand, then left the room.
Maximo Sedano spent the evening on his yacht
cruising in sight of Morro Castle. The breeze
blew the tops off occasional waves under a deep
blue sky. Maximo's two guests looked
decidedly pale as they huddled with him around the
small table near the galley.
"If Castro dies, will the drug smugglers continue
to do business with us"..."...asked Admiral Delgado,
head of the Cuban Navy. For the last fifteen years
he had limited his nautical activities
to visiting patrol boats tied to piers.
"If we can guarantee the continued safety
of their products and their people, of courseea"...Maximo
said.
"We can't guarantee anythingea"...General Alba,
Chief of Staff of the Cuban Army, said
bitterly. "The whole thing is going to fall apart;
we are going to lose something very sweet."
It was typical of Delgado and Alba, Maximo
thought, that their very first thought of the future was of their
pocketbooks. Money. These small, petty men
lived for the bribes. Truly, they were unable to see
what lay outside of the tiny circle where they lived
their miserable, corrupt lives.
Alas, the best military man in Cuba under the
age of eighty, the air force chief, died last
month. Castro had yet to name a replacement, and
probably would not.
Maximo sighed. "Nothing lasts foreverea"...he said.
"But
change always presents opportunity, if one knows
where to
look for it. Gentlemen, it all boils down to this:
Who will
rule Cuba when the dust settles after the
funeral?"
" "It won't be youea"...General Alba said
curtly. "Five of
my regional commanders are in Hector Sedano's
pocket, and there is little I can do about it unless I
relieve them and put someone else in their
place."...He gave a tiny shrug. "Castro must
endorse the order. If I make a major move
like that without his consent, he will sack me."
"He is sick."
"His aides will sack me, using his autiiority.
I cannot disobey Fidel while he draws breath.
You know that as well as I."
"Perhaps you should shoot these disloyal subordinatesea"...the
admiral said slowly, eyeing his colleague.
"If you have some loyal men who will wait until the
right momentea"...Maximo added.
"When Castro dies?"
"No. When I give the word. Not until then."
"I have some loyal men, certainlyea"...the general said.
"I have spread the m
oney around, made sure it got
all the way down the chain. Only a fool plays
the pig or hands great wads of money to someone else
to distribute. My men get their share. The devil of
it is that the disloyal ones think Alejo Vargas
puts it in their pockets. They think he is the good
fairy."
"Will they obey you without question?"
"The loyal men will obey
me,
yes."
"And will
you
obey
me?"
Maximo Sedano demanded.
General Alba stared at Maximo impudently.
"I will not lift a finger to put you on the throne as the
new Fidel unless ..."...he said roughly, still looking
Maximo straight in the eye, "unless you represent
my interests, which are also the interests of my men, and you
have a chance to win. I don't think that you have such a
chance."
"I hear you, Alba. We have worked together for years;
there is enough sugar here for all of us."...Maximo glanced
at the admiral. "Do you agree?"
"Oh, there's enough. But money isn't everything. The
fact is that Alejo Vargas is a blackmailer
and has been
gathering his filth for twenty years. His spies are
everywhere; he sees and hears everything."
The admiral picked up the thought.
"Vargas has corrupted people you would not suspect, and
those he can't corrupt, he blackmails. I
give you my honest opinion: You have no chance against this
man."
"Without friends, I do not, that is true."
"I tell you now, Maximo, you have no friends who
wish to die with you. Few men do."
"What I cannot understandea"...the soldier said, "is why
Fidel tolerated your brother's antics. He
has- been told repeatedly of Hector's
activities, of the "meetings, the speeches, the
subtle criticism of Fidel and the choices he
made. Why does Fidel tolerate this?"
"I asked him that question onceea"...Maximo said, "a
year or so ago. Believe me, he has been
carefully briefed on Hector Sedano."
"What did he say?"
"He said Hector was a barometer. The people's
reactions to his message told Fidel how
unhappy they were with him, with the government. People
routinely lie to government clerks, but if they go out
of their way to listen to Hector Sedano make a
speech, that means something. For my part, I think
Fidel wisely considers what the Church might
think. Like it or not, Hector is a
priest. Fidel has carefully reached out to the
Vatican the last few yearshe cannot afford
to antagonize the pope."
"Are you saying he doesn't care what Hector
says?"
"Three or four years ago when Hector first
came to his attention, I think Fidel found him
extremely irritating. Believe me, I warned
Hector repeatedly, tried to get him to use
reason, to control his tongue. He ignored me.
Flouted me.
"I think Fidel intended to imprison Hector
when he had said enough to convict himself with his own mouth. I
told Hector he was playing with fire. But as
Fidel got sicker, I think he lost interest.
He just listens to the reports now,
asks a few questions about the size of the crowds, who was
there, and goes on to another subject."
"Surely Fidel doesn't intend that Hector
Sedano rule after him"..."...Admiral Delgado
asked, his disapproval of Castro's attitude quite
plain.
"If we are to have a chance at the prize, we must
strike when Fidel breathes his lastea"...Maximo said.
"And quickly. Alejo Vargas must be
assassinated within hours of Castro's death. Within
minutes."
"We would have to kill Santana tooea"...the general
said. "I have trouble "sleeping nights knowing he is out
there listening to everything, planning, scheming at
Alejo's side."
"Who is going to do this killing"..."...the admiral asked.
"No one spoke.
"Our problem is going to be staying aliveea"...the
general said, "because Alejo Vargas and Santana will
eliminate us at the slightest hint that we might be
a threat."
"What about Hector?"
"Hector will have to dodge his own bullets."
"You are sheepea"...Maximo muttered, loud enough for them
to hear, "without the courage to take your fate in your
own hands. The wolves will rip out your throats."
Toad Tarkington and his wife, Lieutenant
Commander Rita Moravia, were seated in the back
corner of the main wardroom aboard
United States,
drinking after-dinner coffee and conversing in low tones.
A naval test pilot, Rita was on an
exchange tour with the Marine squadron aboard
Kearsarge
so that she could gain operational experience on the
tiltrotor Osprey prior to its introduction
into navy squadrons.
As usual when he was around Rita, Toad
Tarkington had a smile on his face. He felt
good.
Life is good,
he thought as he watched her tell him what their son,
Tyler, now four years old, had said in his most
recent letter. She had received the missive earlier
today. Of course Tyler wrote it with the help of
Rita's parents, who looked after him when Rita and
Toad were both at sea.
Yes,
life is good!
It flows along, and if you surround yourself with interesting
people and interesting problems, it's worth living. Toad
grinned "broadly, vastly content.
"May I join you"..."...Toad and Rita looked up,
and saw the new chief of staff standing there with a cup of
coffee in his hands.
"Please do, Captain. Have you met my wife,
Rita Moravia?"
Gil Pascal hadn't. He and Rita shook
hands, said all the usual
getting-acquainted things.
After they discussed the command that the captain had just
left, Pascal said, "I understand that you two have known
Admiral Grafton for some years."
"Oh, yesea"...Toad agreed. "I was just a
lieutenant in an F-14 outfit when I first
met him. He was the air wing commander, aboard this very
ship in fact. We went to the Med that time, had a
run-in with El Hakim."
"I remember the incidentea"...Pascal said. "The
ship went to the yard for a year and a half when she got
back to the States. And Admiral Grafton was
awarded the Medal of Honor."
Toad just nodded. "Rita met the admiral a few
months later in Washington," Toad said, trying
to move the conversation along. Conversations about El
Hakim made him uncomfortable. That was long ago and
far away, when he was single. Now, he realized with a
jolt, things were much differenthe had Rita and Tyler.
He was thinking about how being a family man changed his
outlook when he heard Rita say, "Toad
has
served with Admiral Grafton ever since then.
Somehow he's always found a billet that allowed him
to do that."
"You know Admiral Grafton pretty
well thenea"...Pascal said to Toad.
"He's the second best friend I have in this
lifeea"...Toad replied lightly. He was smiling,
and deadly serious. "Rita is
numero uno,
Jake Grafton is number two."
From there the conversation turned to Rita's current as-
signment, evaluation of the new V-22 Osprey.
After a few minutes Toad asked Rita, "May
I get you more coffee?"
At her nod, Toad excused himself, took both
cups and went toward the coffee urn on a side
table. Normally a steward served the coffee, but just
now they were cleaning up after the evening meal.
Captain Pascal asked, "Have your husband's
assignments hurt his career?"
Rita knew what he meant. Toad had not
followed the classic career path that was supposed
to lead to major command, then flag rank.
"Perhaps."...She gave a minute shrug. "He made
his choice. Jake Grafton appeals to a different
side of Toad's personality than I do."
"Oh, of courseea"...sd the captain, feeling his way.
"Spouses and friends, very different, quite understandable ..."
"Jake Grafton can trade nuances with the
best bureaucrats in the business, and he can attack
a problem in a brutally direct manner."...Rita
searched for words, then added, "He always tries to do the
right thing, regardless of the personal consequences. I
think that is the quality Toad admires the most."
"I seeea"...sd the chief of staff, but it was obvious
that he didn't.
As Toad walked toward the table with a coffee cup in
each hand, Rita Moravia took a last stab at
explanation: "Jake Grafton and Toad
Tarkington are not uniformed technocrats or clerks
or button pushers. They are warriors: I think
they sense that in one another."
The shadows were dissipating to dusky twilight as Ocho
Sedano walked the streets toward the dock area.
Over each shoulder he carried a bag which he had
stitched together from bedsheets. One contained a few
changes of clothes, a baseball glove, several
photos of his familyall that he wished to take with
him into his new life in America. Truly, when
you inventory the stuff that fills your life, you can
do without most of it. Diego Coca said to travel
light and Ocho took him literally.
The other bag contained bottles of water. He had
searched the trash for bottles, had washed