“Oh, I’m certain we do. We always do.
There’s not a spot on the world that we haven’t projected out as a terrorist or rogue state and tried to figure out what we should do about it But in the end, what it comes down to is American men and women setting foot on foreign soil, doesn’t it?”
The roses were in full bloom, each bush carefully and lovingly tended by the White House gardener. Some of the plants were decades old, he guessed. There was no garden on earth that got finer care than this collection of roses. “We should take care of other things just as well,” he said out loud. He heard the uneasy scuffle of feet behind him. And now the President is talking to himself. Wonder if that makes them feel any worse as if it could. He spun his chair back around to face the group.
“One of the reasons I was elected,” he said slowly, organizing his thoughts as he went, “was my commitment to a strong defense policy.”
He grimaced, shrugged slightly.
“You all know I’ve seen all ends of this, from the ground up as a young Army officer in Vietnam to the crises I saw as vice president. I know what I’m about to do, more than any President since maybe Eisenhower.
The other military men that have held this post came from some of the more refined fields of warfare submariner, fighter pilot, that sort of thing.” He gestured dismissively. “But it takes an old Army dogface to understand what fighting’s really about. It takes men hell, and women, too, no won the ground, face-to-face.” He finally came to a decision and looked up at the assembled group. “Cuba is a sovereign nation, but this is our part of the world. I won’t have a land strike capability in Cuba-I won’t. And I’m not going to sit in this office and watch the spectacle of an American fighting pilot being dragged through the streets of Cuba and tried for war crimes.” His voice got louder and stronger. “It will not happen on my watch am I absolutely clear about that?”
The chairman seemed to stiffen. New conviction and pride filled his voice. “As you say, Mr. President not on my watch. On our watch, sir.”
The President nodded sharply. “We understand one another. Thank you for coming. General. I’d like to see you again later this afternoon with answers, this time.”
“I’ll have them for you, Mr. President. You can count on that.” The general saluted, executed a smart about-face, and left the room.
“The rest of you, start getting the other pieces of the packages together. I want everything public affairs coordination, a conference call with the governor of Florida …
no, Louisiana and Texas, as well and the rest of the staff immediately available for the next forty-eight hours.”
And that’s all it should take: forty-eight hours.
2200 Local (+8 GMT)
Caracas International Airport, Venezuela
Aguillar reached out and patted Pamela’s leg lightly above the knee. He let his fingers linger a moment, feeling the smooth silk of the stockings rasp against his well-manicured palm. He trailed his fingers up ever so slightly, lifting them reluctantly away only when she glanced sharply at him. The more he saw of her, the more he thought that the possibilities might be … ah, well, perhaps another time. He sighed, thinking what a waste it was that the woman’s mind could be so firmly fixed on her job. “You are not nervous, I hope?” he inquired politely.
“Of course not,” Pamela said calmly, anger barely edging her tones.
“I’ve been to Cuba before.”
Aguillar chuckled and leaned back in his chair. The aircraft was already taxiing for departure. “Never this Cuba, Miss Drake. And never with a native guide.” A nostalgic look crossed his face.
“There’s nothing like it, nothing in the world.” A strong wave of homesickness shook him, still a surprise after so many years away.
He felt her eyes on his face, studying him, dissecting him in the coldly calculating way he’d seen her operate before.
“Never this Cuba?” she inquired, letting the question trail off to invite response.
“Oh, no, I’m sure you haven’t seen my Cuba. Not the one I grew up in.”
“Under Castro?”
He nodded. “Castro was part of it, but hardly the thing I remember most.” He fixed her with a stern look. “You must remember. Miss Drake, for us, this is normal.”
“Assassinations? Purges? Genocide?”
“That’s not what I remember not what I miss,” he said, surprising himself slightly. For all her brittle prickliness, there was something about Pamela Drake that made him want to talk, to explain to her the sheer luxuriant sensuality of his homeland. The rich, warm nights, the endless beaches, the pure, clean water around her, though the latter would change now, since the advent of heavy industry along the coastline. “It was …” He searched for exactly the right words to convey to her. “Paradise,” he concluded finally.
He saw her doubting look. “Oh, I know what you’ve been told. There’s disease, poverty, and oppressive political regimes but really, remember, we grew up with all that.
There was nothing unusual, nothing abnormal about it. Life went on.
We had families, we had children, and we had …”
Again, words failed him. It seemed impossible to convey to her the simple rhythms of life in Cuba, the feeling of rightness and oneness with nature. And the women ah, the women. He glanced over at her again, contrasting her with Cuban women he’d known. Too many angles, he decided, too many sharpened little edges poking out of her. A classical beauty, yes, yes, every inch of her refined and somehow pure.
But there was none of the raw sensuality he remembered from his island days, none of the exuberant passion for life and making love that he missed perhaps most of all. The American women, so far removed from what was important in life that they were virtually sucked dry of all of the joy of life now that, that joy, was what he missed. “I will show you some places,” he decided suddenly. “Yes, the guerrillas, the freedom fighters you know they’re there and that’s where your story is.”
A small trace of bitterness crept into his voice. “But there is so much more, so much more that Cuba has to offer to America.
There must be cooperation, you see. Not only for our survival, but for America’s as well.”
“And that’s why I decided to come with you,” Pamela said decisively.
“To show the American people both sides of the picture. You claim there’s a difference between your objectives and Leyta’s. Fine, well show it to me. Show me why America should be a friend to Cuba instead of a suspicious neighbor. Show me how much we have in common, where our true future lies. If you can show me, I can show the rest of the world.” She leaned forward, stared past him out the window. “That’s why I came.”
“I know.” He resisted the impulse to reach out and trace his fingers up her thigh, groaned inwardly as he imagined how it would feel to reach the top of the delicate hose. But that’s not why I have you with me.
“From here we will go by seaplane, then by small boat,” he continued, regretfully suppressing the ripple of lust she always caused. “And something else as well despite our differences, Leyta and I cooperate on a number of issues.
His people will be guiding your tour. I believe he may himself be in Cuba at this very moment.”
“Leyta? But why?”
Aguillar shrugged. “You’ve seen most of what I do. I work through existing organizations and channels in Washington. Leyta has other connections.” He frowned for a moment, remembering that his public adversary had even gambled his own brother’s life on an overt mission gambled and lost. “While I disapprove completely of his methods, unfortunately he is the better equipped to show you our homeland. He will be rendezvousing with us off the coast of Cuba. I think you will find his planned tour itinerary most enlightening.”
More interesting than you planned on, my sweet American bitch. If you knew how we are using you, my chances would disappear entirely.
2209 Local +5 GMT)
The White House
“So this is
it?” the President asked. “He gestured at the battle plan drawn on the chalkboard. “Why the Arsenal ship?”
“It’s time for an operational task, Mr. President,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff said calmly. “With the rash of accidents we’ve had on board Jefferson, I’m afraid …” He let his voice trail off delicately.
Vice Admiral Thomas Magruder snorted. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Jefferson and her battle group,” he snapped. “Mr. President, with all due respect to the chairman, that ship is as ready as she’s ever been. She was ready when my nephew Tombstone commanded her, and she’s ready now.” He leaned forward and jabbed angrily in the air with a forefinger. “If you want a strike on Cuba, Jefferson is the best bet. Using anything else is a mistake.”
“The question of assets has already been decided,” the chairman said shortly. He turned to the President and added smoothly, “Subject to your approval, of course, sir.”
The President leaned back in his chair and looked puzzled. “Aircraft carriers have always been the primary platform for force projection,” he said slowly. “I’m not sure why we should deviate now.”
“The Arsenal ship can do the same job at a fraction of the risk,” the chairman pointed out. “Totally independent, capable of putting massive amounts of ordnance onshore smart weapons, Mr. President, specifically tailored to reach each target we want, without any collateral damage.
Without any collateral damage. More importantly, every step of the battle can be controlled personally by you. The ability to order the attack while you’re still talking to the Cubans on the telephone gives you a superb bargaining position.”
The President glanced up at him sharply. “You’re going to guarantee that?” He shook his head. “Impossible. There’s always collateral damage.”
“And how much did you see during Desert Storm and Desert Shield?” the chairman asked politely. “There were stories, allegations but you have to admit, the smart weapons performed superbly. The weapons on the Arsenal ship are a generation beyond that. We have a target impact area of no greater than one meter, Mr. President. Less than thirty-six inches, and from a range of over eighty miles away. There’s not an aircraft on that carrier that can match that kind of targeting precision. And there’s one other factor,” he continued. “Something that will make it the ultimate political war weapon.”
“The targeting?” The President frowned. “I don’t know that it’s such a good idea.”
The chairman stepped forward until he was standing three feet away from the President. “The entire Arsenal ship is capable of being remotely targeted. Mr. President, based on your experiences on the land, you know how critical unity of command and avoiding blue-on-blue engagements is.
One screw up between the aircraft and we take out a friendly land force.
But with the Arsenal ship, all movements can be controlled directly from here, from this very room if you wish. You will truly be the first commander in chief able to act immediately in response to changing battlefield conditions, making sure the war is fought exactly as you wanted it. Even the most advanced communications suite in the world can’t give you that.” He pointed at Admiral Magruder, who now stared down at the floor in disgust.
“The admiral can’t promise you that, not with flights of Tomcats and Hornets filling up the sky and getting in each other’s way.”
The President looked over at Admiral Magruder. “Well?
What about it? My predecessor seemed to trust you. You and I don’t know each other that well yet. Let me hear what you think.”
“I think it’s a big mistake, maybe the biggest one you’ll make during this term,” Vice Admiral Magruder said bluntly. He stood and walked briskly to the front of the room. “Targeting decisions belong in the military arena, Mr. President. No disrespect intended, but you simply do not have the time to develop the in-depth targeting and weaponeering capabilities here that that battle group commander already has. Has, and practices regularly.” Vice Admiral Magruder shook his head. “You get into micromanagement from the White House or even from the Joint Chiefs of Staff and you put lives at risk. Conditions change too quickly, and the battlefront is too fluid to allow that. You must remember that.” The admiral’s voice took on an urgent quality.
“That’s exactly the point that you always miss. Admiral,” the chairman said angrily. “We can bring that technology to the President’s office.
He can make every decision, just as though he were on the scene. And, more importantly, he can make this conflict what it truly is a political statement. An extension of his foreign policy, a demonstration of his individual will. How do you think that will affect the Cubans, knowing that the man on the other end of the hot line has his finger poised exactly over the fire control circuits?”
“They’ll think he’s a fool,” Vice Admiral Magruder said quietly.
“Because even the Cubans remember Vietnam.” He turned back to the President. “As do you, sir. You were there. You know what happens when Washington makes individual targeting decisions on a daily basis.
How could you forget?”
The President nodded slowly, then frowned. “We spent an awful lot of money on the Arsenal concept, though. And what the chairman says is true war is an extension of political objectives. Although sometimes I think it’s the other way around politics is a continuation of war by other means.” He looked back and forth between the two men. “Install the equipment. General.” He raised one hand to forestall Magruder’s protest. “I’m not saying we’ll use it.
For now, the battle group commander remains on-scene commander.
However, I want detailed plans from him regarding his proposed use of the Arsenal ship. And make it clear to him that I view this as an excellent opportunity to use our advanced technology, and to demonstrate its usefulness in any battlefield scenario.” His voice took on a firmer note. “This will work. Admiral if your people give it half a chance.”
The chairman nodded sharply. He turned to Admiral Magruder. “I’ll expect to see the plans later this evening.”
Twenty minutes later. Admiral Magruder was on the telephone to his nephew. Over a highly secure circuit, he outlined the gist of the President’s request. “Make it work, Stoney,” he concluded. “You don’t have to like it, but make it work.”
SIX
Thursday, 27 June (0800
0800 Local (+5 GMT)
Tomcat 201
With the Washington-mandated safety stand-down over, Jefferson immediately returned to full flex-deck operations.
The Cubans continued to clutter up the sky around the ship with sponges of Fulcrums, but popular opinion had it that Admiral Wayne was not likely to allow that state of affairs to continue. The admiral had made it clear that current operations had two main objectives: to locate and retrieve Major Hammersmith and to obtain up-to-date eyeball intelligence on Cuban air defense capabilities.
No one had to tell the VF-95 Viper squadron what the latter information was for. They were going in. It was just a question of how and when.
The demands on the flight schedule allowed even the staff pilots to grab some stick time.
“You have any idea what we’re doing up here?” Bird Dog asked. His index finger was beating out a staccato rhythm on the throttles.
“I know as much as you do.” Resignation tinged the normally taciturn RIO’s voice. “They say launch, I launch.
They say go north of Cuba and look tactical, I give you fly-to points: What else do we have to know?”
“What the hell we’re doing here would help,” Bird Dog snapped. He yanked the Tomcat into a sharp right-hand turn without warning, shoving Gator hard against the seat back.
“Hey! What the hell was that about?” Gator’s words were slightly muffled as he forced them out between clenched teeth. “Give me some warning next time, asshole.”
“Sorry, shipmate, just thought I saw something up ahead, that’s all.”
Bird Dog eased quickly o
ut of the turn and turned gently to port, putting it back on its original heading. Why the hell had he done that? If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that Gator didn’t deserve it. He’d known the unexpected turn would subject the RIO to massive G-forces, and might even have caused him to black out.
There was no reason to take it out on Gator. It wasn’t his RIO’s fault that he was being treated like a less than completely essential part of the battle group. Hell, he ought to be grateful that he was flying, although his orders to proceed from Jefferson to north of Cuba and to orbit on a CAP station with two other F-14s seemed a waste of gas and time. Time he could have better spent sleeping, dreaming about the beautiful Callie. He sighed as images of his fiancee well, almost his fiance erose in his mind, as they were wont to do at the slightest provocation.
Who would’ve ever thought he’d be torn between dreaming about a woman and flying? A year ago, flying would have won hands down.
“We’re a diversion,” Gator said. “There are four Tomcats and four Hornets on Alert Five right now. Since when does the carrier roust that many aviators out of bed simply to support a grab-ass mission?”
“A diversion? Why? There’s nothing going on around here.”
Gator sighed. “Of course there’s not. It’s a diversion, stupid. A diversion happens somewhere besides the main action. Didn’t they teach you that at the War College?”
“The War College was a bit more sophisticated than that,” Bird Dog said stiffly.
The yearlong curriculum concentrated on operational art, with many theories contrasted to old-style campaign planning. Students at the Naval War College looked at the big picture: how best to use military force to achieve political objectives, what composition of large-scale forces were most appropriate to applying pressure to an opponent’s center of gravity. They didn’t get down into the grass, as the professors there were fond of saying. Individual platform capabilities, weapon ranges, and tactics were the province of more junior courses, such as Tactical Action Officer School or even Fighter Weapons Course Top Gun at Naval Station Miramar. The War College students were expected to be beyond that, to concentrate on the high-level planning they’d be expected to do as members of a deployed staff or ashore at the Pentagon. In Bird Dog’s case, he’d had a chance to apply his new skills even before he graduated.
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