“My tour’s up in a year and a half,” Sean said. “I figure I’ve done my time. Going out on a high note is the way I’ve always wanted it.” Being XO of Delta was higher than he’d ever thought possible.
Buxton smiled again and nodded. It was a blessing of Sean’s decision from a comrade, and that mattered more than anything.
“One for the road, Maj.”
“Hopefully the last.”
* * *
Major Guevarra and the commander of the Cuban Army unit securing the Juragua Nuclear Generating Facility hurried to the small building that was known as the command bunker, though neither knew why such a small structure out in the open would be termed such. General Asunción was waiting for them outside one of the two doors.
“Colonel, the enemy has cut the highway north of here.”
“What?” the Cuban commander asked with disbelief, his eyes narrowing to slits. “We already have a force to the north. A large force and they are engaging the rebels.”
“To their north, yes, but the bastards have slipped into their rear,” Asunción said.
“How many?” Guevarra asked.
“No reports, but however many there are, they are fighting like wild men.” Asunción turned back to the commander of the ground troops. “Colonel, take your force and secure the highway between us and the rebels. Send a unit to attack and destroy them once you have.”
“But the plant, General.”
“Leave a small unit here. We will have Major Guevarra remain to react if any more rebels have slipped through.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Major,” Asunción began as the colonel moved off. “I want you ready to defend this facility at a second’s notice, is that understood?”
“Yes, General Asunción!” Guevarra saluted smartly, then trotted back to his helicopter and its ground crew. “Prepare to fly, quickly!”
“We have a target?” Sergeant Montes asked hopefully.
“Possibly. If it shows itself, then we must be ready.”
The crew chief approached the major. “The weapons load, sir. What do you wish?”
Guevarra analyzed what he might be asked to do. Rebel forces slipping behind the lines. They would have light weapons and would be able to scatter themselves quickly. He would need weapons that could attack a large area with lethal results. “A full load of thirty-millimeter ammunition for the cannon.” He paused. “And eight rocket pods, all with flechette rounds.” Flechettes, small, needlelike spears, were packed tightly ahead of a burster charge in the warhead of each unguided rocket, essentially creating a massive shotgun shell that would fire after launch. The effect, as had been proved in battles from Vietnam to Afghanistan, was utterly devastating on troops in the open. Precisely where Guevarra hoped to find his targets.
“But, Major, you need protection from aircraft,” the crew chief implored. “Let me load two air-to-air missiles.”
“What aircraft?” Guevarra demanded angrily. “Our targets will be running, on the ground, not up with us. We rule the sky, my friend. Now load the weapons which I have told you. They will be of use.”
“Yes, sir.”
Guevarra watched his crew chief hurry back to begin the job, which would take but a half hour. He then looked up to the darkening sky and listened. The sound of nothing was just what he wanted to hear.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CAVALRY
The president of the Russian Federation has two offices. One is located in the Russian Federation Building, ironically called the White House because of its alabaster finish, which overlooks the Moscow River where Kalinin Prospect crosses that body of water. The second office, which had been the official seat of power since the demise of the Soviet Union, is the same working space used by the leaders of the former USSR. Situated near the northern corner of the roughly triangular Council of Ministers Building, the office affords a view of Red Square that is only mildly obstructed by the monolithic Lenin Mausoleum off to the right. Directly across the square is the GUM Department Store, which, even with the depressed and stagnant economy of Mother Russia, usually has throngs of Muscovites pouring in and out of its doors.
But the square was empty as President Gennadiy Timofeyevich Konovalenko stared out upon it. No shoppers meandered away from GUM. No tourists admired the neoclassical architecture surrounding them. Moscow was asleep, its residents, except for the hardiest drunkards prowling the frigid Metro stations, at peace. At peace. The president hoped they would wake to such a reality.
The motion of an approaching Zil limousine caught his attention. It sped past St. Nicholas’s Tower and disappeared through an unseen gate in the massive stone wall that surrounded the seventy-acre Kremlin grounds. The president turned back from the window, nodding to his foreign minister. “I believe we are about to receive visitors.”
Yakovlev nodded back and sat down, shifting his chair slightly to better face the door. The president went behind his desk and sat also, rolling his sleeves back into the neat cuffs that had loosened during the hours of waiting.
“Let us hope that this is just a delay for dramatics,” Yakovlev said. They could have done without such very easily.
The president brought his hands up to his chin. His eyes were locked on the twin wooden doors leading to his secretary’s adjoining office, which itself led into a wide hallway. Not a sound could be heard. The silence lasted for several minutes before the synchronized tapping of heels upon the wooden floor began. Two distinct sets. As expected, the good interior minister had brought company.
The doors opened without a knock. “Gennadiy Timofeyevich! Your lunacy has gone on too long!”
Konovalenko barely moved as his interior minister bellowed the proclamation. At his side was a man not unfamiliar, in full uniform, a pistol at his side. At least it isn’t in his hand, the president thought. “Georgiy Ivanovich. You brought a guest.”
“I bring General Pavel Suslov,” Bogdanov said. “And the six thousand men of his division.”
The president’s eyes mockingly scanned the room and the hallway through the open doors. “I see only two men, and I am not certain they can be classified so highly in the social order.”
Bogdanov steamed. Even though the pig knew he was finished, he continued to throw insults! “They are very near, Gennadiy Timofeyevich,” Bogdanov said, continuing his intentional nonuse of the man’s title. “And they will see to your removal, and to the removal of all those who have supported your abuse of the Motherland.”
The faintest sound reached the president’s ear. He had been waiting eagerly for it. A few more minutes.
“Georgiy Ivanovich, you will be shot for this,” Yakovlev stated.
“Only if I do so myself, Igor Yureivich.” The interior minister spoke his words with almost exaggerated smugness.
“So you are here to remove me from office.” Konovalenko stood slowly and walked around the desk to face his nemesis. He gave General Suslov a cursory, a disdainful glance but saved the weight of his attention for Bogdanov. “And you believe there will be no resistance?”
Bogdanov smiled, but he might not have had he seen Suslov’s eyes narrow as a familiar sound began to reach his ears. “General Suslov’s division is the only force of consequence near the city. The Kremlin guard would not even cause them pause.”
Konovalenko saw, from the corner of his eye, Suslov’s head turn toward the window. The sound, a far-off droning, was rising. “But others will, Comrade Interior Minister.”
“What others?” Bogdanov asked with little expectation of an answer that would cause him alarm...until he heard the sound.
The president stepped back and walked to the window, his head tilting upward toward the sky. The droning was almost overhead now. “Comrades, I think you may wish to see this.”
Bogdanov went to the window, his mind racing as it began to fear what might be happening. A step behind, Suslov had already realized his fate. Yakovlev caught the look of resignation as the general passed him. He held ou
t his hand, palm up, and took the officer’s pistol as it was handed over.
“Beautiful, wouldn’t you agree, Georgiy Ivanovich?”
Bogdanov didn’t even hear the question. His attention was fully absorbed by the sight before him. From out of the darkness dozens of dark green canopies descended into the white lights of Red Square. The nylon mushrooms collapsed as the men dangling beneath them landed and cut themselves free of the chutes. The first troops to land moved directly to the north and south ends of the square, and the second wave of paratroopers, arriving less than a minute later, went straight for the Kremlin gates.
“I don’t understand,” Bogdanov said honestly.
“The Ninety-first Guards Air Assault Division,” Foreign Minister Yakovlev informed him from behind. “The heavy equipment they could load on such short notice is landing at Shermatevo Two as we speak.”
Shermatevo Two, an airport north of Moscow normally restricted for government use, was but twenty-two kilometers away. Thirty minutes at the most. The 106th was still an hour outside the city.
“You see, there will be a fight,” Konovalenko said. “And General Shergin will be receiving a visit from the Ninety-first Guards, as well.” Those aircraft had already deposited their troops, if all was going as planned.
“But how?”
“You underestimate the power of Marshal Kurchatov, Comrade Interior Minister.” That title the president used only for the sake of convenience. It would soon be stripped from Georgiy Ivanovich Bogdanov. “Did you think he would remain silent once you cut him off?” Konovalenko laughed, still looking to the square as dozens upon dozens of loyal troops floated from the sky. “He is more a man than that. More a man than you can ever hope to be.”
“Comrade President,” Suslov began very formally. “I request permission to contact my division and have them cease their advance.”
“What? No!” Bogdanov spun around.
The foreign minister finally stood. “Your friend the general is wise, Georgiy Ivanovich. Russians fighting Russians in the streets of Moscow will produce no winners.”
“Tell them to return to base, General Suslov,” the president ordered without turning.
Bogdanov swung angrily around to face the president. “And the Americans! They assisted you with this, didn’t they?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
Bogdanov’s eyes became slits as his head shook. “You are a bigger fool than I thought. You have let the Americans destroy you, Gennadiy Timofeyevich. Possibly us all.”
Konovalenko was aware of the time. “We will know that one way or the other in a short while.” In the distance he could see more paratroopers descending toward Lubyanka Square. All around the city they would be arriving, he knew. “And you will wait here, with myself and Igor Yureivich, and greet the morning.” He turned and faced Bogdanov as the drone of aircraft continued. “What happens then... We will see, but I have placed my trust in the Americans. Enemies of ours once, yes. But now their threat to the Motherland pales when compared to the likes of you.” He looked to the general. “Suslov, present yourself to the guard to be put under arrest. Your grasp of the situation will be considered in your trial.” Back to the interior minister. “You. Have a seat.”
* * *
Ojeda split his force into three groups as they approached Juragua, the last trace of daylight just a reddish-orange sliver on the horizon. One group of seventy moved east through the abandoned warehouses a mile from the objective. From there they would set up a hasty defense if any loyalists should approach from the north once the operation began. The second group, consisting of fifty men and the only heavy weapons—two mortars—the rebels had carried with them, approached along the beach, and positioned themselves to provide support for the main group. That force, 180 men under Colonel Ojeda’s personal command, arrayed themselves in the jungle a mile west of the objective. They were split into sixty-man groups as planned, each with their own specific task. Once all were in position, there was but one act remaining before the show would begin.
“Pilgrim, this is Toolbox,” Antonio said into the SATCOM radio’s handset. Ojeda was ten feet from him, scanning the approach to the plant through the NVGs.
“Toolbox, we copy,” Mike Healy responded from Langley, a single satellite “bounce” from the jungles of southern Cuba.
“Pilgrim, we are in position. Awaiting signal information.”
“Copy, Toolbox. Your signal will come from Raptor. He will be airborne CP and can provide assistance from above.” Healy knew that Paredes would be aware of just what Raptor was. “Gambler will be your visitors. Due in on a no-wait warning from Raptor. Sandman will be eye in the sky. All your communications should go through Raptor once the operation commences.”
“Pilgrim, I copy.” Antonio noted the information mentally and expected to switch to the alternate net that would put him in contact with Raptor.
“Toolbox, we have a change in plans to inform you of.”
“Go ahead, Pilgrim.”
“Your original guests will no longer be able to make the party due to circumstances beyond our control.”
Unable? “Pilgrim, that is...that can be a problem.” Ojeda was expecting to turn power over to a civilian government headed by the CFS exiles. What the hell would he do now that they weren’t coming? And why weren’t they coming? “This was all arranged to avoid a power struggle.”
“Toolbox,” a different voice came on. It was Secretary of State James Coventry. “We are trying to arrange for alternate leadership, but it might take time.”
“Time,” Antonio said a bit too loud. He turned his body away as eyes locked on him. “If there is a power vacuum after this is over, we could end up with a fight for leadership that could leave Cuba with something as bad as it just got rid of. There are still opportunists in the military, even among the rebels. Not all of them are as honest as Ojeda.”
There was no reply immediately. The silence made Antonio realize what he’d just suggested without intending to do so. His head turned back to the colonel. Could he do it? “Pilgrim, I have an idea.”
“We thought so, Toolbox.”
* * *
The unmarked white van pulled up to the gate and was met by a stern-looking Air Force guard. The Cape was an Air Force installation, albeit one with more public access than most, but the two weeks before an entirely military shuttle mission always saw increased security.
“Your purpose, gentlemen?”
Chris Testra produced his FBI shield, as did Freddy Sanz. The guard examined them and their faces with a shine of his flashlight. He had been told to expect them and further told not to question them about what they were there to do.
“Very good. I have you on my list. You can follow the signs to Flight Control Road. Turn left there.”
“Thanks,” Testra said, reaching to drop the van into gear.
“Hold it, Chris.” Sanz pointed through the windshield to the fence—more specifically to a sign on the fence. “You know, it might be kinda fun.”
Testra turned to the guard. “Hey. Mind if we borrow that for a while?”
No questions, the guard remembered. That also implied no arguments. “Be my guest.”
* * *
The Agency Learjet landed at the Cape just after a vaguely similar aircraft bearing the markings of the United States Navy. Both taxied to a seldom-used tarmac south of the single runway and stopped a hundred feet apart. A white van with two men standing in front of it was waiting in the same area. In less than a minute the passengers of both jets and the men at the van were standing together.
“I’m Greg Drummond, Deputy Director, Intelligence, of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
Sanz nudged his partner.
“Yes, the CIA,” Drummond confirmed, noticing the gesture. “You must be agents Testra and Sanz.”
The two Miami agents shook the DDI’s hand and those of the other two people.
“Art Jefferson, L.A. office. This is Frankie Ag
uirre.”
“Hi,” Frankie said, nodding to the Miami representatives of the Bureau.
“Well, we have some bad guys to nail,” Drummond said. “We need the same thing from both of them. You two”—the DDI pointed at Testra and Sanz—“will take the real bad boys into custody once we have the evidence we need. Jefferson and Aguirre here will get what I need from the second target But I will handle him. None of you are to be involved with that. Clear?”
They all nodded.
“Jefferson, you have the tape?”
“Right here,” Art said. “And something to play it on.”
“Good.” He looked to the Miami agents. “And I trust you have the equipment we need?”
“Right here,” Sanz said, touching the hard case on the ground with his foot.
Greg Drummond smiled, feeling an anticipation he hadn’t felt for a very long time. “Good. This is what we’re going to do.”
* * *
The Pave Hawk backed out of its final tanking twenty-five miles off the coast and turned north, heading for the beach southeast of Cienfuegos.
“Major, Raptor on the radio.”
“Switch me over,” Sean said. He left his black titanium helmet on his lap, next to the MP5SD4, and pushed the boom mic against his lips. “Raptor, this is Gambler. Go ahead.”
“Gambler, we have a thumbs-up from Toolbox.” It was Colonel Cadler, twenty miles west in the AC-130U. The drawl was unmistakable, even after traveling more than forty thousand miles through space. He would be acting as the central coordinator of air and land actions for the operation about to begin.
“Roger, Raptor. We’ll be feet dry in fifteen.”
“Sandman shows a clear air plot. You and me are the only things flying.”
“Roger that, Raptor. Glad to hear it.”
“Fingers crossed, Gambler.”
“Fingers crossed, sir.” Sean heard the radio switch back to intercom. “Cho, she’s all yours. I’m going on my body mic.”
“Yes, sir, Major. Fingers crossed.”
“You, too.” Sean removed the headset and inserted his radio earpiece before pulling his helmet on. The attached NVGs, flipped upward to allow for unobstructed vision, made his head want to tilt forward. “Mikey. Chuck. Check the SPIE rigs again.”
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