Coonts, Stephen - Jake Grafton 7 - Cuba

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