by Cuba (lit)
erected after the revolution.
So were the statues in the Plaza de Revolucion.
And some of the statues in Old Havana, at the
Museo de Arte Colonial, at the Catedral
de San Cristobal de la Havana, on some
of the minor squares.
After
the revolution! After the government collected all the
gold pesos, or before?
The Museum of the Revolution! The old
presidential palace was converted to a propaganda
temple that would prove to all generations the
venality of Batista, the dictator Fidel had
overthrown. Maximo recalled reading somewhere that
Fidel had personally supervised the renovation and
conversion of the old building.
Thirty-seven tons of gold. Fidel had
squirreled it away somewhere.
What he needed to do was go to the Museum of the
Revolution, lock himself in a room with the collection
of Havana newspapers. After the revolution, after
the gold was collected, what was Fidel doing?
Thirty-seven tons of gold.
"One sample vial from the Cuban lab contained a
new, super-infectious strain of poliomyelitis.
The viruses are so hot they kill in seconds."
The members of the National Security Council
didn't say anything.
"The scientists said they never saw anything like itea"...the
national security adviser continued. "The four
sample vials contained three different strains of the
polio virus. Two of the vials contained the same
type of virus."
"Is the vaccination we were all given as children
effective against these strains"..."...The chairman of the
joint chiefs asked this question.
"Apparently jiot. The scientists will
need more time to verify that, but apparently ... no."
The president looked glum. "Talk about a
choice. We can wait until the Cubans use that
stuff on us or we can bomb the lab right now."
"No, sirea"...the chairman said. 'There is no
guarantee a bomb would kill that virus. Bombing
the lab would "probably just release the viruses to the
atmosphere and kill everyone in Cuba who happened
to be downwind."
The silence that followed that remark was broken by the
secretary of state, who asked, "Do the scientists
have an estimate on how long those viruses can live
outside the lab?"
"Not yetea"...the national security adviser replied.
He took a deep breath and referred back to his
notes. "Here is the situation in Cuba as we
believe it to be: We received a report two hours
ago from our man in Havana who says he was told
earlier today that Fidel Castro is dead. He is
sending some videotapes in the diplomatic pouch."
"Dead, huh"..."...sd the president. "I'll believe
it when they put his corpse on display in a tomb
on the Plaza de Revolucion."
Someone tittered.
The national security adviser continued
to read from his notes. "Review of the documents from the
safe of the secret police chief, Alejo
Vargas, indicates that the Cubans have installed
biological warheads on intermediate-range
ballistic missiles."
"What?"
the president demanded. He pounded on the table with the
flat of his hand to silence everyone else. In the
silence that followed, he roared, "Where in hell did
those people get ballistic missiles?"
The national security adviser looked like he was in
severe pain. "From the Russians, sir. In
1962. Apparently the
STEPHEN COONTS
Russians left some behind after the Cuban missile
crisis. You may recall that Castro refused
to let the UN inspection team into the country to verify
that all the missiles had been removed."
"How good is this information?""...The man who sent it is
absolutely reliable."...The president mouthed a
profane oath, which the chairman of the joint chiefs
thought a succinct summation of the whole situation.
In a country as poor as Cuba safe houses were
hard to come by. The one that William
Henry Chance and Tommy Carmellini found themselves in
was an abandoned monastery on a promontory of land
on the south coast of the island. Surrounded by tidal
flats and dense vegetation, the sprawling one-story
building was an occasional refuge for drug
smugglers and young lovers, who had left their trash
strewn about. The rotten thatched roof remained
intact over just one room, the kitchen. A roaring
fire burned in the fireplace, which apparently the
monks had used primarily for cooking.
From the window three fishing boats were visible,
wooden boats with a single mast, manned by one or
two men. The crew of two of the boats were rigging
trot lines, the other was hauling in a net. Chance
examined each through binoculars. They looked harmless
enoughhe doubted if any of the boats had an engine
or radio.
"What do you think"..."...Carmellini asked.
"We have a little time, but I don't know how much."
"Guess it depends on how efficient the
secret police and the military are."
"Ummea"...Chance grunted, and after one more sweep of
everything in sight, put down the binoculars.
Tommy Carmellini sat feeding sheets of paper
from the secret police files into the fire
as fast as they would burn. He merely scanned the
pages as he ripped them from the files and tossed them
into the flames.
"Vargas and bis guys were certainly
thoroughea"...Car-
mellini commented. "They looked under every rock."
"And found every slimy thing that walks or
crawlsea"...Chance agreed. Vargas's laptop was
on, so Chance resumed his examination of the files.
"Sort of like J. Edgar Hoover."
"Secret police are pretty much alike the world
overea"...Chance muttered. He moved the cursor to the
next file on the list and called it up.
"How many missiles are there on this
island"..."...Carmellini asked as he tore paper.
"I have found six missile files, so far. There
may be moreI see some references to material that
doesn't seem to be on this computer."
"Six? With locations?"
"Names only. Every missile has a name: Miami,
Atlanta, Jacksonville, Charleston, New
Orleans, and Tampa."
"What about Mobile?"'
- "Don't see it on here."
"Birmingham, Orlando, the army bases in
Alabama?"
"Nothing."
"I find it hard to believe that in the decades since
1962, the Cubans have managed to keep the secret
of their ballistic missiles."
Chance didn't reply. He had never agreed with the
agency's spending priorities, which were heavily
slanted toward reconnaissance satellites. The
people in Washington were sold on high-tech computer and
sensor networks for the collection of intelligen
ce.
Hardware and software didn't turn traitor and were
easy to justify to the bean counters. The spymasters
seemed to have lost sight of a basic truth: networks
could only collect the information their sensors' were
designed to obtain. And they could be fooled. If
garbage goes in, garbage comes out.
Ah, well. The world keeps turning.
"How long is that going to take"..."...Chance asked,
referring to the files and the fire.
"Couple hours at this rate."
Chance glanced at his watch. A few minutes after
one o'clock in the afternoon. The rendezvous with the submarine was
set for ten o'clock tonight, almost nine hours away. "If
we have to run for it, we'll take everything
we haven't burned."
He and Carmellini and die four U.s. Navy
SEAL'S on guard in the grasses and bushes out
front would try to escape if the Cubans
attacked the place. Two speedboats were fueled
and ready inside die old boathouse, and a
submarine would meet diem fifty miles south.
Unfortunately he had no way of knowing if die
submarine was already lying submerged at die
rendezvous position or if the skipper planned
to arrive punctually. If he was already there, Chance,
Carmellini, and die SEAL'S could leave now. If
die sub wasn't at die rendezvous, die two
boats would have to spend die afternoon and evening rolling hi
die swell, hoping and praying die Cuban Navy
didn't come over die horizon.
We'll wait,
Chance decided, glancing at his watch again, though
Lord knows die waiting was difficult.
It would be a serious mistake to underestimate
Alejo Vargas. The Cuban secret police
had over forty years of practice finding and arresting
people who sneaked onto die islandone had to assume they
were reasonably good at it.
Chance didn't want to get into a
firefight with die Cuban military or secret
police. Leaving a body behind would be bad, and leaving
a live person to be captured and tortured would be
absolute disaster.
If die Cubans came riding over die
hill, Chance and his entourage were leaving as quickly as
possible. They could take their chances on die open
sea. That decision made, Chance turned his attention
back to die computer screen hi front of him.
Two months ago when he and Carmellini were handed
this mission, William Henry Chance would not have bet
a plugged nickel they could pull it off. Polish
die Spanish hi
over a hundred hours of classes, be in the right
place at the right time when the power went off, break
into Alejo Vargas's safe in secret-police
headquarters, carry out the files that Vargas had
spent twenty years accumulating, the files he could
trade for political support after Castro's
death.
Amazingly, they had pulled it off. Every file that
went into the flames was one Vargas would never use.
Chance glanced at Carmellini, who was using a stick
to stir the fire, keep the paper burning.
Yep, they had pulled it off. And stumbled
upon a biological weapons program and
Fidel's collection of old Soviet ballistic
missiles.
Six missiles. No locations.
The locations must be well camouflaged or the
satellite reconnaissance people would have seen them long
ago. On the other hand, if they knew what they were
looking for...
Chance went to the door, called softly to the SEAL
lieutenant. dis"...Mr. Fitzgerald, would you set
up die satellite telephone again?"
"Of course. Take about five minutes."
"Thank you."
While the lieutenant was getting the set turned on
and acquiring the corn satellite, Chance continued
to check the computer. When he hit a file labeled
"Trajectories"...he sensed he was onto something
important.
The file was a series of mathematical
calculations, complex formulas. Hmmm...
Let's see, if one could figure out where the
warheads were aimed, then one could use the known
trajectory to work back to the launch site. That's
right, isn't it?
"Mr. Chance, they're on."...The
lieutenant handed him the satellite phone.
In Washington, D.c., the director of the CIA
and the national security adviser listened without comment as
the voice of the agent in Cuba came over the speaker
phone. He gave them the news as quickly and
succinctly as he
could. They had the secret-police files, were
burning them now though the task would take several more
hours, they had a computer containing a file of what
appeared to be missile-trajectory calculations,
and there were at least six ballistic missiles in
Cuba, maybe more. Chance gave the men in
Washington the names of the missiles.
"Well doneea"...the director said, high praise from
that taciturn public servant.
When the connection was broken, the national security
adviser and the CIA director sat silently,
lost in thought. The spymaster was thinking about Alejo
Vargas and the possibility he might seize control
of the government in Cuba upon the death of Castro. The
other man was thinking about ballistic missiles and
microscopic viruses of poliomyelitis.
"Another Cuban missile crisisea"...muttered the
adviser disgustedly.
The CIA director grinned. "Why
don't you look at the silver lining of this cloud for a
change? Fate has just presented us with a rare
opportunity to clean out a local cesspool. We
ought to be down on our knees giving thanks."
The adviser didn't see it that way. He knew the
president regarded the upcoming death of Castro as
a political opportunity, a chance to change the
relationship between Cuba and the United States and
escape the bitter past. Perhaps the president would
decide to just ignore the weapons, pretend they
didn't exist. Then he could hold out the olive
branch to the Cubans, get what he wanted from them,
get credit for progressive leadership from the
American electorate, and negotiate about the
weapons later.
Tommy Carmellini was burning the last of the files
when William Henry Chance noticed that two of the
fishing boats were no longer in sight. "When did they
leave"..."...he asked the naval officer, Lieutenant
Fitzgerald.
"Several hours ago, sir. I noticed one of them
going west
under sail then, but I confess I haven't been
paying much attention to the others."
Carmellini checked his watch5:30
P.m. Still three or four hours of daylight
left.
"Anything stirring out here"..."...Chance asked.
"No, sir. Pretty quiet. An old man and a
girl walked along the road toward the monastery about
three P.m., then
turned and went back the way
they had come."
"Did they see your men?"
"No, sir." -
"Well..."...In truth, Chance was nervous. He
felt trapped, completely at the mercy of forces
beyond his control. He took a deep breath, tried
to relax as Carmellini stirred the ashes of the fire
to ensure that all the paper he had thrown in was totally
consumed.
"Would you like some MRE'S, sir"..."...the navy officer
asked. "My men and I are getting hungry."
Surprised at himself for not noticing his hunger
sooner, Chance said, "Why not"..."...He hadn't had a
bite since last night.
They were munching at the rations when a helicopter
came roaring down the coast from the west. The craft was
doing about eighty knots, Chance guessed, when it
went Over the old monastery. It continued west for a
half mile or so, then laid into a turn.
"Shitea"...sd Tommy Carmellini.
"Lieutenant, I think he's onto usea"...Chance
told the SEAL officer.
"If he is, his friends can't be far awayea"...the SEAL
said. Standing in the center of the room so he was hidden in
shadow, he used the binoculars to look at the
chopper.
"Two men, one looking at us with binoculars."
"Maybe it's time we set sailea"...Chance said as he
folded the laptop and zipped it into its soft carrying
bag. Then he put the whole thing in a waterproof
plastic bag, which he carefully sealed.
"Stay down, stay clear of the windowsea"...the
lieutenant
said, and darted out the door away from the chopper.
Chance and Carmellini sat on the floor with their
backs to the window. The chopper noise came closer
and closer, then seemed to stop. It sounded as if the
craft were hovering about a hundred feet to the east of the
crumbling building. The rotor wash was stirring the
remnants of the roof thatch that Chance could see.
Then he heard the sharp crack of a rifle. Two
more reports in quick succession. The tone of the
chopper's engine changed, then he heard the sound of the
crash.
He risked a peek out the window. The wreckage
of the helicopter lay on the rocks by the water's
edge. Amazingly, one of the rotor blades was still
attached to the head and turning slowly. A wisp of
smoke rose from the twisted metal and Plexiglas.
Chance could see the bodies of the two men slumped
motionless in what remained of the cockpit. As he
watched the wreckage broke into flames.
"Sorry about thatea"...the lieutenant said as he burst