STEVEN COONTS

 CUBA

  Admiral Jake Grafton is overseeing a

 shipment of nerve gas being transferred from a

 top-secret U.s. stockpile at

 Guantanamot Bay. But a power struggle inside

 cuba has ignited an explosive plot and

 turned a horrific new weapon on the U.s.

 Now, Jake must strap himself into the cockpit of a

 new generation of American aircraft and fly blind in

 to the heart of an island that is about to blow -- and take

 the whole world with x*

  St. Martin's Paperbacks

 NOTE:

 If you purchased this book without a cover you should be

 aware that this book is stolen property. It was

 reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the

 publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has

 received any payment for this "stripped book."

 CUBA

 Copyright [*copygg'1999 by Stephen Coonts.

 Ml

 rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or

 reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written

 permission except in the case of brief quotations

 embodied in critical articles or reviews.

 For information address Still Martin's Press, 175

 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.y.

 10010.

 Library of Congress Catalog Card Number

 ISBN: 0-312-97139-7

 Printed in the United States of America .

 St. Martin's Press hardcover edition still

 August 1999 St. Martin's Paperbacks

 edition still May 2000

 Still Martin's Paperbacks are published by St.

 Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New

 York, N.y. 10010.

 To Tyler

 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

 In theory a speculative work of adventure

 fiction has the same requirement for technical

 accuracy as a story about space aliens set in the

 thirtieth century, yet as a practical matter

 many readers demand that this author at least stay in

 reality's neighborhood while spinning his tales.

 For their aid in contributing to technical accuracy the

 author wishes to thank Michael R. Gaul,

 Captain Sam Sayers USN Ret., Mary

 Sayers, Captain Andrew Salkeld USMC, and

 Colonel Emmett Willard USA Ret., as

 well as V-22 experts Colonel Nolan

 Schmidt USMC, Lieutenant Colonel Doug

 Isleib USMC, and Donald L. Byrne

 Jr. As usual, the author has taken liberties

 in some technical areas in the interest of readability

 and pacing.

 Emestina Archilla Pabon de Pascal devoted

 many hours to helping the author capture the flavor

 of Cuba and earned the author's heartfelt thanks.

 A very special thank-you goes to the author's

 wife, Deborah Buell Coonts, whose wise

 counsel, plot suggestions, and endless hours of

 editing added immeasurably to the quality of this tale.

 Cultivo una rosa blanca, Enjulio como en

 enero, Para el amigo sincere Que me da

 su mano franca.

 y para el cruel que me arranca El

 corazon con que vivo, Cardo ni oruga

 cultivo; Cultivo la rosa blanca.

 Jose Marti

 I grow a white rose

 In July the same as January,

 For the sincere friend

 Who gives me his open hand. And for the cruel one who

 pulls me

 away

 from the dreams for which I live,

 I grow neither weeds nor thistles,

 I grow the white rose.

 V8I9

 PROLOGUE

 His hair was white, close-cropped, and his skin

 deeply tanned. He wore only sandals,

 shorts, and a paper-thin rag of a shirt with three

 missing buttons that flapped loosely on his

 spare, bony frame. A piece of twine around his

 waist held up his shorts, which were also several sizes

 too large. His dark eyes were restless and bright behind his

 steelframed glasses, which rested on a large,

 fleshy nose.

 The walk between the house and barn winded him, so he

 sat on a large stone in a bit of shade cast by a

 cluster of palm trees and contemplated the gauzy

 blue mountains on the horizon and the puffy clouds

 floating along on the trade wind.

 A man couldn't have found a better place to live out

 his life, he thought. He loved this view, this

 serenity, this peace. When he had- come here as a young

 man in his twenties he had known then that he had found

 paradise. Nothing in the first twenty-six years of his

 life had prepared him for the pastel colors, the

 warmth and brilliance of the sun, the kiss of the eternal

 breeze, the aroma of tropical flowers that filled

 his head and caressed his soul.

 Cuba was everything that Russia wasn't. After a

 lifetime in Siberia, he had wanted to get down and

 kiss the earth when he first saw this land. He had

 actually done that, several times in fact, when he had

 had too much to drink. He drank a lot in those

 days, years and years ago, when he was very young.

 When the chance to stay came he had leaped at it,

 begged for it.

 "After a time you will regret your choiceea"...the colonel

 said. "You will miss Mother Russia, the sound of

 Russian voices, the young wife you left

 behind...."

 "She is young, intelligent, ambitious.;.."...he

 had replied, thinking of Olga's cold anger when

 informed she could not accompany him to Cuba. She was

 angry at

 him

 for having the good fortune to go, not angry at the state

 for sending him. She had never in her life been

 angry at the state for anything whatsoever, no

 matter how bleak her life or prospectsshe

 didn't have it in her. Olga was a good communist

 woman, communist to the core.

 "She will be told that you have died in an accident. You

 will be proclaimed a socialist hero. Of course,

 you may never write to her, to your parents, to your

 brother, tor anyone in the Soviet Union.

 All will believe you dead. For them, you will be dead."

 "I will have another life here."

 "These are not your peopleea"...the colonel observed pointedly

 a bit later in the discussion, but he didn't listen.

 "Olga is a patriotea"...he remembered telling the

 colonel. "She loves the state with all her soul.

 She will enjoy being a widow of a socialist hero.

 She will find another man and life will go on."

 So he stayed, and they told her that he was

 dead. Whether she remarried or stayed single, got

 that transfer to Moscow that she dreamed about, had the children

 she didn't want, he didn't know.

 Looking at the blue mountains, smelling the wind,

 he tried to conjure up the picture of her in his mind

 that he had carried all these years. Olga had been

 young then so he always remembered her that way. She

 wouldn't be young now, of course, if she still lived; she

 would be hefty, with iron gray hair which she would wear

 pulled back in a bun.

 His mind was blank. Try as he might, he couldn't

 remember what Olga looked like.

 comPerhaps that was just as well.

 He had found a woman here, a chocolate brown

 woman who cooked and washed for him, lived with him,

 slept with him and bore him two children. Their son died

 years ago before he reached manhood, and their daughter

 was married and had children of her own. His daughter cooked

 for him now, checked to make sure he was all right.

 Her

 face he could remember. Her smile, her touch, the

 warmth of her skin, her whisper in the night...

 She had been dead two years next month.

 He would join her soon. He knew that. He had

 lost seventy pounds in the last twelve

 months and knew that something was wrong with him, but he

 didn't know just what.

 The village doctor examined him and shook her

 head. "Your body is wearing out, my friendea"...the

 doctor said. "There is nothing I can do."

 He had had a wonderful life here, in this place in

 the sun in paradise.

 He coughed, spat in the dirt, waited for the spasms

 to pass.

 After a while he slowly levered himself erect and

 resumed his journey toward the barn.

 He opened the board door and stepped into the cool

 darkness within. Little puffs of dust arose from every

 footfall. The dirt on the floor had long ago

 turned to powder.

 The only light came from sunbeams shining through the

 cracks in the barn's siding. The siding was merely

 boards placed on the wooden frame of the building

 to keep out the wind and rain ... and prying eyes.

 In truth the building wasn't really a barn at

 all, though the corners were routinely used to store

 farm machinery and fodder for the animals and occasionally

 to get a sensitive animal in out of the sun.

 Primarily the building existed to hide the large,

 round concrete slab in the center of the floor.

 The building was constructed in such a way that there were

 no

 beams or wooden supports of any kind above the

 slab. The roof above the slab was merely boards can-

 tilevered upward until they touched at the apex of the

 building.

 The white-haired old man paused now to look

 upward at the pencil-thin shafts of sunlight which

 illuminated the dusty air like so many laser beams.

 The old man, however, knew nothing about lasers, had

 never even seen one: lasers came after he had

 completed hjs schooling and training.

 One corner of the building contained an enclosed

 room. The door to the room was locked. Now the old

 man fished in his pocket for a key, unlocked the

 door, and stepped inside. On the other side of the

 door he used the key to engage the lock, then

 thoughtfully placed the key in his pocket.

 He was the only living person with a key to that lock.

 If he collapsed in here, no one could get in

 to him. The door and the walls of this room were made of

 very hard steel, steel sheathed in rough, unfinished

 gray wood.

 Well, that was a risk he had agreed to run all

 those years ago.

 Thirty-five ... no, thirty-eight years ago.

 A long time.

 There was a light switch by the door, and the old man

 reached for it automatically. He snapped it on.

 Before him were stairs leading dewji.

 With one hand on the rail, he went down the stairs,

 now worn from the tread of his feet.

 This door, these stairs ... his whole life. Every day

 ... checking, greasing, testing, repairing ...

 Once rats got in down here. He had never found

 a hole that would grant them entrance, though he had

 looked carefully. Still, they had gotten in and eaten

 insulation off wiring, chewed holes in boards,

 gnawed at pipes and fittings. He managed

 to kill three with poison and carried the bodies out.

 Several others died in places he couldn't get to and

 stank up the place while their carcasses

 decomposed.

 God, when had that been? Years and years ago ...

 He checked the poison trays, made sure they were

 full.

 He checked consoles, visually inspected the

 conduits, turned on the electrical power and

 checked the warning lights, the circuits.

 Every week he ran a complete set of

 electrical checks on the circuitry, checking every

 wire in the place, all the connections and tubes,

 resistors and capacitors. Occasionally a tube

 would'be burned out, and he would have to replace it. The

 irony of burning up difficult-to-obtain

 electrical parts testing them had ceased to amuse him

 years ago. Now he only worried that the parts would

 not be available, somewhere, when he needed them.

 He wondered what they were going to do when he became

 unable to do this work. When he died. Someone was going to have

 to take care of this installation or it would go to rack and

 ruin. He had told the Cuban major that the last

 time he came around, which was last month, when the

 technicians came to install the new warhead.

 Lord, what a job that had been. He was the only one

 who knew how to remove the old nuclear warhead, and

 he had had to figure out how to install the new one.

 No one would tell him anything about it, but he had

 to figure out how it had to be installed.

 "You must let me train somebodyea"...he said to the

 major, "show someone how to take care of this thing. If

 you leave it sit without maintenance for just a few months

 in this climate, it will be junk."

 Yes, yes.-The major knew that. So did the people in

 Havana.

 "And I am a sick man. Cancer, the doctor

 says."

 The major understood. He had been told about the

 disease. He was sorry to hear it.

 "This thing should be in a museum nowea"...he told the

 major, who as usual acted very military, looked

 at this, tapped on that, told him to change a

 lightbulb that had just burned outhe always changed dead

 bulbs immediately if he had good bulbs to put inthen

 went away looking thoughtful.

 The major always looked thoughtful. He hadn't an

 idea about how the thing worked, about the labor and cunning

 required to keep it operational, and he never asked

 questions. Just nosed around pretending he knew what he

 was looking at, occasionally delivered spare parts,

 listened to what the old man had to say, then went

 away, not to reappear for another three months.

 Before the major there had been a colonel. Before the

 colonel another major... In truth, he

 didn't get to know these occasional visitors very

 well and soon forgot about them.

 Every now and then he would get a visitor that he could not

 forget. Fidel Castro had come three times. His

 first visit occurred while the Russians were still here,

 during construction. He looked at everything,

 asked many questions, didn't pretend to know anything.

 Castro returned when the site was operational.

 Several generals had accompanied him. The old

 man could still remember Castro's green uniform, the

 beard, the everpresent cigar.

 The last time he came was eight or ten years ago,

 after the Soviet Union collapsed, when spare

 parts were so difficult to obtain. That time he had

 asked questions, listened carefully to the answers, and the

 necessary parts and supplies had somehow been delivered.

 But official visits were rare events, even by the

 thoughtful major? Most of the time the old man was left

 in peace and solitude to do his job as he saw fit.

 Truly, the work was pleasanthe had had a good life,

 much better than anything he could have aspired to as a

 technician in the Soviet Rocket Forces,

 doomed to some lonely, godforsaken, windswept

 frozen patch of Central Asia.

 The old man left the power on to the consolehe would

 begin the tests in just a bit, but first he opened the

 fireproof stee] door to reveal a set of stairs

 leading downward. Thirty-two steps down to the

 bottom of the silo.

 The sight of the missile resting erect on its

 launcher

 always took his breath for a moment. There it sat, ready

 to be fired.

 He climbed the ladder to the platform adjacent to the

 guidance compartment. Took out the six screws that

 sealed the access plate, pried it off, and used a

 flashlight to inspect the wiring inside. Well, the

 internal wiring inside the guidance unit was getting

 old, no question about it. It would have to be replaced

 soon.

 Should he replace the guidance wiringwhich would take

 two weeks of intense, concentrated effortor should he

 leave it for his successor?

 He would think about the work involved for a few more

 weeks. If he didn't feel up to it then, it would

 have to wait. His health was deteriorating at a more or

 less steady pace, and he could only do so much.

 If they didn't send a replacement for him soon,

 he wouldn't have enough time to teach the new man what he

 needed to know. To expect them to find someone who already

 knew the nuts and bolts of a Scud I missile

 was ridiculous. These missiles hadn't been

 manufactured in thirty years, were inaccurate,

 obsolete artifacts of a bygone age.

 It was equally ridiculous to expect someone

 to remove this missile from the silo and install

 a new, modern one. Cuba was poor, even poorer

 than Russia had been when he was growing up.

 Cuba could not afford modern missiles and the new,

 postcommunist Russia certainly could not afford

 to give them away.

 Not even to aim at Atlanta.

 Those were the targeting coordinates.

 He wasn't supposed to know the target, of course,

 but that rule was another example of military

 stupidity. He took care of the missile,

 maintained it, tested it, and if necessary would someday fire

 it at the enemy. Yet the powers that be didn't want

 him to know where the missile was aimed.

 So when he was working on the guidance module he had

 checked the coordinates that were programmed in,

 STEPHEN COONTS

  compared them to a map in the village school.

 Atlanta!

 The gyros in the guidance module were 1950's

 technology, and Soviet to boot, with the usual

 large, forgiving military tolerances. No one ever

 claimed the guidance system in a Scud I was a

 precision instrument, but it was adequate. The

 guidance system would get the missile into the proper

 neighborhood, more or less, then the warhead

 would do the rest.

 The old warhead had an explosive force equal

 to one hundred thousand tons" equivalent of

 TNT. It wouldn't flatten all of

 AtlantaAtlanta was a mighty big place and

 getting biggerbut it would make a hell of a dent in

 Georgia. Somewhere in Georgia. With luck, the

 chances were pretty good that the missile would hit

 Georgia.

 The new warhead... well, he knew nothing about it.

 It was a completely different design than the old

 one, although it weighed exactly the same and also

 seemed to be rigged for an airburst, but of course

 there was no way for him to determine the altitude.

 Not that it mattered. The missile had never been

 fired and probably never would be. Its

 capabilities were mere speculation.

 The old man took a last look at the interior

 of the control module, replaced the inspection plate

 and inserted the screws, then carefully tightened each

 one. Then he inspected the cables that led to the

 missile and their connectors. From the platform he could

 also see the hydraulic pistons and arms that would

 lift the cap on the silo, if and when. No leaks

 today.

 Carefully, holding on with both hands, he climbed

 down the ladder to the floor of the silo, which was just a

 grate over a large hole, the fire tube,

 designed so the fiery rocket exhaust would not cook

 the missile before it rose from the silo.

 The rats may have got into the silo when he had the

 cap open, he thought. Yes, that was probably it.

 They got in-

 side, found nothing to eat, began chewing on wire

 insulation to stay alive.

 But the rats were dead.

 His woman was dead, and he soon would be.

 The missile...

 He patted the side of the missile, then began

 climbing the stairs to the control room to do his

 electrical checks.

 Nobody gave a damn about the missile, except

 him and maybe the major. The major didn't really

 care all that muchthe missile was just a job for him.

 The missile had been the old man's life. He

 had traded life in Russia as a slave in the

 Strategic Rocket Forces for a life in

 paradise as a slave to a missile that would never be

 fired.

 He thought about Russia as he climbed the

 stairs.

 You make your choices going through life,

 he told himself,

 or the state makes the choices for you. Or God

 does. Whichever, a man must accept life as it

 conies.

 He sat down at the console in the control room,

 ran his fingers over the buttons and switches.

 At least he had never had to fire the missile.

 After all these years taking care of it, that would be

 somewhat like committing suicide.

 Could he do it? Could he fire the missile if

 ordered to do so?

 When he first came to Cuba he had thought deeply

 about that question. Of course he had taken an oath

 to obey disand all that, but he never knew if he really

 could.

 Still didn't.

 And was going to die not knowing.

 The old man laughed aloud. He liked the sound so

 much he laughed again, louder.

 After all, the joke was really on the communists, who

 sent him here. Amazingly, after all the pain and

 suffering they caused tens of millions of people all

 over the planet, they had given him a good

 life.

 He laughed again because the joke was a good one.

 Guantanamo Bay, on the southeast coast of the

 island of Cuba, is the prettiest spot on the

 planet, thought Rear Admiral Jake

 Grafton, USN.

 He was leaning on the railing on top of the carrier

 United States's

 superstructure, her island, a place the sailors

 called Steel Beach. Here off-duty crew

 members gathered to soak up some rays and do a few

 calisthenics. Jake Grafton was not normally a

 sun worshiper; at sea he rarely visited

 Steel Beach, preferring to arrange his day so that he

 could spend at least a half hour running on the

 flight deck. Today he was dressed in gym shorts,

 T-shirt, and tennis shoes, but he had yet

 to make it to the flight deck.

 Gra bar ton was a trim, fit fifty-three

 years old, a trifle over six feet tall, with

 short hair turning gray, gray eyes, and a nose

 slightly too large for his face. On one temple

 was a scar, an old, faded white slash where a

 bullet had gouged him years ago.

 People who knew him regarded him as the

 epitome of a competent naval officer. Grafton

 always put his brain in gear before he opened his mouth,

 never lost his cool, and he never lost sight of the

 goals he wanted to accomplish. In short, he was

 one fine naval officer and his superiors knew it,

 which was why he was in charge of this carrier group lying in

 Guantanamo Bay.

 The carrier and her escorts had been running

 exercises in the Caribbean for the last week. Today the

 carrier was anchored in the mouth of the bay, with two of

 her larger consorts anchored nearby. To seaward

 three- destroyers

 steamed back and forth, their radars probing the skies.

 A set of top-secret orders had brought the

 carrier group here.

 Jake Grafton thought about those orders as he

 studied the two cargo ships lying against the pier through a

 set of navy binoculars. The ships were small,

 less than eight thousand tons each; larger ships

 drew too much water to get against the pier in this

 harbor. They were

 Nuestra Sefiora de Colon

 and

 Astarte.

 The order bringing those ships here had not come from

 some windowless Pentagon cubbyhole; it was no memo

 drafted by an anonymous civil servant or

 faceless staff weenie. Oh, no. The order that had

 brought those ships to this pier on the southern coast of

 Cuba had come from the White House, the top of the

 food chain.

 Jake Grafton looked past the cargo ships at

 the warehouses and barracks and administration buildings

 baking in the warm Cuban sun.

 A paradise, that was the word that described Cuba.

 A paradise inhabited by communists. And

 Guantanamo Bay was a lonely little American

 outpost adhering to the underside of this communist island, the

 asshole of Cuba some called it.

 Rear Admiral Grafton could see the cranes

 moving, the white containers being swung down to the pier

 from

 Astarte,

 which had arrived several hours ago. Forklifts took

 the steel boxes to a hurricane-proof warehouse,

 where no doubt the harbormaster was stacking them three

 or four deep in neat, tidy military rows.

 The containers were packages designed to hold

 chemical and biological weapons, artillery

 shells and bombs. A trained crew was here

 to load the weapons stored inside the

 hurricane-proof warehouse into the containers, which would

 then be loaded aboard the ship at the pier and

 transported to the United States, where the warheads

 would be destroyed.

 Loading the weapons into the containers and getting the

 containers stowed aboard the second ship was going

 to take at least a week, probably longer. The

 first ship,

 Nuestra Sefiora de Colon,

 Our Lady of Col less-than 5n, had been a

 week loading, and would be ready to sail this evening.

 Jake Grafton's job was to provide military

 cover for the loading operation with this carrier battle

 group.

 His orders raised more questions than they answered. The

 weapons had been stored in that warehouse for years why

 remove them now? Why did the removal operation

 require military cover? What was the threat?

 Admiral Grafton put down his binoculars and

 did fifty push-ups on the steel deck while he

 thought about chemical and biological weapons.

 Cheaper and even more lethal than atomic weapons,

 they were the weapons of choice for Third World nations

 seeking to acquire a credible military

 presence. Chemical weapons were easier to control

 than biological weapons, yet more expensive

 to deliver. Hands down, the cheapest and deadliest

 weapon known to man was the biological one.

 Almost any nation, indeed, almost anyone with a credit

 card and two thousand square feet of laboratory

 space, could construct a biological weapon hi a

 matter of weeks from inexpensive, off-the-shelf

 technology. Years ago Saddam Hussein got

 into the biological warfare business with anthrax

 cultures purchased from an American mail-order

 supply house and delivered via overnight mail.

 Ten grams of anthrax properly dispersed can kill

 as many people as a ton of the nerve gas Sarin. What was

 that estimate Jake saw recently"...one hundred

 kilograms of anthrax delivered by an efficient

 aerosol generator on a large urban target would

 kill from two to six times as many people as a

 one-megaton nuclear device.

 Of course, Jake Grafton reflected,

 anthrax was merely one of over one hundred and

 sixty known biological warfare agents. There were

 others far deadlier but equally cheap to manufacture

 and disperse. Still, obtaining a culture was merely a

 first step; the journey from culture dishes

 to

 a reliable weapon that could be safely stored and

 accurately employedanything other than a spray

 tankwas long, expensive, and fraught with engineering

 challenges.

 Jake Grafton had had a few classified

 briefings about CBW-WHICH stood for chemical and

 biological warfare but he knew little more than diswas

 available in the public press. These weren't the

 kinds of secrets that rank-and-file naval

 officers had a need to know. Since the Kennedy

 administration insisted on developing other military

 response capabilities besides nuclear warfare,

 the United States had researched, developed, and

 manufactured large stores of nerve gas, mustard

 gas, incapacitants, and defoliants. Research

 on biological agents went forward in tandem at

 Fort Detrick, Maryland, and ultimately led to the

 manufacture of weapons at Pine Bluff

 Arsenal in Arkansas. These highly classified

 programs were undertaken with little debate and almost no

 publicity. Of course the Soviets had their own

 classified programs. Only when accidents

 occurredlike the accidental slaughter of 6,000

 sheep thirty miles from the Dugway

 Proving Ground in Utah during the late

 1960's, or the deaths of sixty-six people at

 Sverdlovsk in 1979 did the public get a

 glimpse into this secret world.

 Nerve gases were loaded into missile and rocket

 warheads, bombs, land mines, and artillery shells.

 Biological agents were loaded into missile

 warheads, cluster bombs, and spray tanks and

 dispensers mounted on aircraft.

 Historically nations used chemical or

 biological weapons against an enemy only when the

 enemy lacked the means to retaliate in kind. The

 threat of massive American retaliation had

 deterred Saddam Hussein from the use of chemical

 and biological weapons in the 1991 Gulf War,

 yet these days deterrence was politically incorrect.

 In 1993 the United States signed the

 Chemical Weapons Convention, thereby agreeing

 to remove chemical and biological weapons from its

 stockpiles.

 The U.s. military had been in no hurry

 to comply with the treaty, of course, because without the threat of

 retalia-

 STEPHEN COONTS

 tion there was no way to prevent these weapons

 being used against American troops and civilians.

 The waiting was over, apparently. The politicians

 in Washington were getting their way: the United

 States would not retaliate against an enemy with

 chemical or biological weapons even if

 similar weapons were used to slaughter Americans.

 When Jake Grafton finished his push-ups and

 stood, the staff operations officer, Commander Toad

 Tarkington, was there with a towel. Toad was slightly

 above medium height, deeply tanned, and had a

 mouthful of perfect white teeth that were visible when he

 smiled or laughed, which he often did. The admiral

 wiped his face on the towel, then picked up the

 binoculars and once again focused them on the cargo

 ships.

 "Glad the decision to destroy those things wasn't one

 I had to makeea"...Toad Tarkington said.

 "There are a lot of things in this world that I'm glad

 I'm not responsible forea"...Jake replied.

 "Why now, Admiral? And why does the ordnance

 crowd need a battle group to guard them?"

 "What I'd like to knowea"...Jake Grafton mused,

 "is why those damned things were stored here in the first

 place. If we knew that, then maybe we would know

 why the brass sent us here to stand guard."

 "Think Castro has chemical or biological

 weapons, sir?"

 "I suspect he does, or someone with a lot of

 stars once thought he might. If so, our weapons were

 probably put here to discourage friend Castro from

 waving his about. But what is the threat to removing them?"

 "Got to be terrorists, sirea"...Toad said.

 "Castro would be delighted to see them go. An

 attack from the Cuban Army is the last thing on

 earth I would expect. But terrorists maybe they

 plan to do a raid into here, steal some of the darn things."

 "Maybeea"...Jake said, sighing.

 "I guess I don't understand why we are taking them

 home for destructionea"...Toad added. "The

 administration got

 the political credit for signing the Chemical

 Weapons Treaty. If we keep our weapons,

 we can still credibly threaten massive retaliation if

 someone threatens us."

 "Pretty hard to agree to destroy the things, not do

 it, and then fulminate against other countries who

 don't destroy theirs."

 "Hypocrisy never slowed down a

 politicianea"...Toad said sourly. "I guess I

 just never liked the idea of getting naked when

 everyone else at the party is fully dressed."

 "Who in Washington would ever authorize the use of

 CBW weapons"..."...Jake muttered. "Can you see a

 buttoneddown, blow-dried, politically correct

 American politician ever signing such an

 order?"

 Both men stood with their elbows on the railing looking

 at the cargo ships. After a bit the admiral

 passed Toad the binoculars.

 "Wonder if the National Security Agency is

 keeping this area under surveillance with

 satellites"..."...Toad mused.

 "No one in Washington is going to tell

 us,"

 the admiral said matter-of-factly. He pointed

 to one of the two Aegis cruisers anchored nearby.

 "Leave that cruiser anchored here for the next few

 days. She can cover the base perimeter with her guns

 if push comes to shove. Have the cruiser keep her

 gun crews on five-minute alert, ammo on the

 trays, no liberty. After three days she can pull

 the hook and join us, and another cruiser can come

 anchor here."

 - "Yes, sir."

 "There's a marine battalion landing team

 aboard

 Kearsarge,

 which is supposed to rendezvous with us tomorrow. I want

 Kearsarge

 to stay with

 United States.

 We'll put both ships in a race-track

 pattern about fifty miles south of here, outside

 Cuban territorial waters, and get on with our

 exercises. But we'll keep a weather eye peeled

 on this base."

 "What about the base commander, sir? He may know more

 about this than we do."

 "Get on the ship-to-shore net and invite him to have

 dinner with me tonight. Send a helo in to pick him

 up."

 STEPHEN COONTS

 "Sir, your instructions specifically directed that

 you maintain a business-as-usual security

 posture."

 "I rememberea"...Jake said dryly.

 "Of course, "business as usual" is an

 ambiguous phraseea"...Toad mused. "If anything

 goes wrong you can be blamed for not doing enough or doing

 too much, whichever way the wind blows."

 Jake Grafton snorted. "If a bunch of

 wild-eyed terrorists lay hands on those warheads,

 Tarkington, you and I will be fried, screwed, and

 tattooed regardless of what we did or didn't

 do. We'll have to will our bodies to science."

 "What about the CO ef the cruiser, Admiral?

 What do we tell him?"

 "Draft a top-secret message directing him

 to keep his people ready to shoot."

 "Aye, aye, sir."

 "Nuestra Senora de Colon

 is sailing this evening for Norfolk. Have a destroyer

 accompany her until she is well out of Cuban

 waters."

 "Yo."...Toad was making notes on a small memo

 pad he kept in his hip pocket.

 "And have the weather people give me a cloud-cover

 prediction for the next five days, or as far out as

 they can. I want to try to figure out what, if

 anything, the satellites might be seeing."

 "You mean, are they keeping an eye on the Cuban

 military?"

 "Or terrorists. Whoever."

 "I'll take care of it, sir."

 "I'm going to run a couple laps around the

 deckea"...Jake Grafton added.

 "May I suggest putting a company of marines

 ashore to do a security survey of the base

 perimeter? Strictly routine."

 "That sounds feasibleea"...Jake Grafton said. "Tonight

 let's ask the base commander what he thinks."

 backslash

 CUBA 17

 "Terrorists or the Cuban Armywanna bet ten

 bucks? Take your pick."

 "I only bet on sure things, sir, like

 prizefights and Super Bowls, occasionally a

 cockroach race."

 "You're wise beyond your years, Toadea"...the admiral

 tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the hatch.

 "That's what I tell Ritaea"...Toad shot back.

 Rita Moravia was his wife.

 Jake Grafton didn't hear the rest of

 Toad's comment. "And wisdom is a heavy burden,

 let me tell you. Real heavy. Sorta like

 biological warheads."...He put the binoculars

 to his eyes and carefully studied the naval base.

 The night was hot and sultry, with lightning playing

 on the horizon. From his seat on"...the top row of the

 stadium bleachers Hector Juan de

 Dios Sedano kept an eye on the lightning, but

 the storms seemed to be moving north.

 Everyone else in the stadium was watching the game.

 Hector's younger brother, Juan Manuel

 "Ocho"...Sedano, was the local team's star pitcher.

 The eighth child of his parents, the Cuban fans had

 long ago dubbed him El Ocho. The family

 reduced the name to "Ocho."

 Tonight his fastball seemed on fire and his curve

 exceptional. The crowd cheered with every pitch. Twice

 the umpire called for the ball to examine it. Each

 time he handed it back to the catcher, who tossed it

 back to the mound as the fans hooted delightedly.

 At the middle of the seventh inning Ocho had faced just

 twenty-two batters. Only one man had gotten

 to first base, and that on a bloop single just beyond the

 fingertips of the second baseman. The local team

 had scored four runs.

 Hector Sedano leaned against the board fence behind him

 and applauded his brother as he walked from the mound.

 Ocho looked happy, relaxedthe confident, honest

 gaze of a star athlete who knows what he can do.

 As Hector clapped, he spotted a woman coming

 through the crowd toward him. She smiled as she met his

 eyes, then took a seat beside him.

 Here on the back bench Hector was about ten feet

 fro'm the nearest fans. The board fence behind him was

 the wall of the stadium, fifteen feet aboveeathe

 ground.

 "Did your friends come with you"..."...he asked, scanning the

 crowd.

 "Oh, yes, the usual twoea"...she said, but didn't

 bother to point to them.

 Sedano found one of the men settling into a seat five

 rows down and over ab* thirty feet. A few

 seconds later he saw the other standing near the

 entrance where the woman had entered the stadium. These

 two were her bodyguards.

 Her name was Mercedes. She was the widow of one of

 Hector's brothers and the current mistress of

 Fidel Castro.

 "How is

 MimaThat'

 Tomorrow was Hector's mother's birthday, and the clan was

 gathering.

 "Fine. Looking forward to seeing everyone."

 "I used the birthday as an excuse. They don't

 want me to leave the residence these days."

 "How bad is he?"

 "Estd tojodio.

 He's done in. One doctor said two weeks,

 one three. The cancer is spreading rapidly."

 "What do you think?"

 "I think he will live a while longer, but every night

 is more difficult. I sit with him. When he is

 sleeping he stops breathing for as much as half a

 minute before he resumes. I watch the clock,

 counting the seconds, wondering if he will breathe again."

 The.home team's center fielder stepped up to the

 plate. Ocho was the second batter. Standing in the

 warm-up circle with a bat in his hands, he scanned

 the faces in the crowd. Finally he made eye

 contact with Hector, nodded his head just enough to be seen,

 then concentrated on his warm-up swings.

 "Who knows about this"..."...Hector asked Merc"...des.

 "Only a few people. Alejo is holding the lid

 on. The doctors are with him around the

 clock."...Alejo Vargas was the minister of the

 ulterior. His ministry's Department of

 STEPHEN COONTS

 State Securitythe secret policeinvestigated

 and suppressed opposition and dissent.

 "We have waited a long timeea"...Hector mused.

 "Ese cabron,

 we should have killed Vargas

 years"...agoea"...Mercedes said, and smiled at a woman

 who turned around to look at her. *

 "We cannot win with his blood on our hands."

 "Alejo suspects you, I think."

 "I am just a Jesuit priest, a teacher."

 Mercedes snorted.

 "He suspects everyoneea"...Hector added.

 "Don't be a fool."

 El Ocho stepped into the batter's box to the roar of the

 crowd. He waggled the bat, cocked it, waited

 expectantly. His stance was perfect, his weight

 balanced, he was tense and readywhen he batted

 Hector could see Ocho's magnificent talent.

 He looked so ... perfect.

 Ocho let the first ball go by ... outside.

 The second pitch was low.

 The opposing pitcher walked around the mound, examined

 the ball, toed the rubber.

 The fact was Ocho was a better batter than he was

 a pitcher. Oh, he was a great pitcher, but when he

 had a bat in his hands al caret his gifts were on

 display; the reflexes, the eyesight, the

 physique, the ability to wait for his pitch....

 The third pitch was a strike, belt-high, and Ocho

 got around on it and connected solidly. The

 ball rose into the warm, humid air and flew as if

 it had wings until it cleared the center field fence

 by a good margin.

 "He caught it perfectlyea"...Mercedes said,

 admiration in her voice.

 Ocho trotted the bases while everyone in the

 bleachers applauded. The opposing pitcher stood on

 the mound shaking his head in disgust.

 Ocho's manager was the first to greet him as he

 trotted toward the dugout. He pounded his star on the

 back, pumped his hand, beamed proudly, almost like a

 father.

 "S

 CUBA 21

 "What else

 is

 happening"..."...Hector asked.

 "The government has signed the casino agreement.

 Miramar, Havana, Varadero and Santiago.

 The consortium will provide fifty percent of the cost

 of an airport in Santiago."

 "They have been negotiating for whatthree years?"

 "Almost that."

 "Any sense of urgency on the part of the Cubans?"

 "I sense none. The Americans were happy

 with the deal, so they signed."

 "Who are these Americans?"

 "I thought they were Nevada casino people, but there were people in

 the background pulling strings, criminals, I think.

 They wanted assurances on prostitution and

 narcotics."

 The Cuban government had been negotiating

 agreements for foreign investment and development for

 years, mainly with Canadian and European

 companies. Tourism was now the largest industry in

 Cuba, bringing 1.5 million tourists a year to the

 island and keeping the economy afloat with hard

 currency. Now the Cuban government was openly

 negotiating with American companiesea.with all deals

 contingent upon the ending of the American economic

 embargo. Fidel Castro believed that he could put

 political pressure upon the American government

 to end the embargo by dangling development rights in

 front of American capitalists. Hector

 Sedano thought Fidel understood the Americans.

 "The tobacco negotiator, Chancehow is he

 progressing?"

 "He is talking to your brother Maximo. Then he

 is supposed to see Vargas. Tobacco will

 replace sugarcane as Cuba's big

 crop, he says. The cigarettes will be

 manufactured here and marketed worldwide under

 American brands. The Americans will finance

 everything; Cuba will get a fifty-percent share of the

 business, across the board."

 "Is this Chance serious?"

 "Apparently. The tobacco companies think their days

 are numbered in the United States. They want

 to move off-

 shore, escape the regulation that will eventually put

 them out of business."

 Hector sat silently, taking it all in as the

 uniformed players on the field played a game with

 rules. What a contrast with politics!

 Mercedes was a treasure, a person with access to the

 highest levels of the Cuban government. She brought

 Hector Sedano information that even Castro

 probably didn't have. The big question, of course, was

 how she learned it. Hector told himself repeatedly

 that he didn't want to know, but of course he did.

 He glanced at the woman sitting beside him. She was

 wearing a simple dress that did nothing to call

 attention to her figure, nor did it do anything

 to hide it.

 She was a beautiful woman who needed no

 makeup and never wore any. Every man she met was

 attracted to her, an unremarkable fact, like the

 summer heat, which she didn't seem to notice.

 Extraordinarily smart, with a nearphotographic

 memory, she had almost no opportunities to use

 her talent in Cuban society.

 Except as a spy.

 "Will Maximo be at

 Mima's

 party tomorrow?"

 "He said he would."

 "Should I be shocked if he acts possessive?"

 Mercedes glanced at him, raised an eyebrow.

 "He would not be so foolish."

 Well, just who was she sleeping with? Hector glanced

 at her repeatedly, wondering. She appeared to be

 concentrating on the ball game.

 The only thing he knew for sure was that she wasn't

 sleeping with him, and God knows he had thought about

 that

 far more than any priest ever should. Of course,

 priests were human and had to fight their urges, but

 still...

 Castro ... Of course she slept with himshe was his

 mistressthat was how she got access. But

 did she love liim?

 Or was she a cool, calculating tramp ready

 to change horses now that Castro was dying?

 No. He shook his head, refusing to believe that of

 her.

 Where did Maximo fit in? As he sat there

 contemplating that angle, he wondered how Maximo

 saw her?

 Mercedes left after watching Ocho pitch an inning.

 He faced three batters and struck them all out.

 When the game was over, Hector Sedano stayed in

 his seat and watched the crowd file out. He was still

 sitting there when someone shouted at him, "Hey, I

 turn out the lights now."

 The darkness that followed certainly wasn't total.

 Small lights were illuminated over the exits, the

 lights of Havana lit up the sky, and lightning

 continued to flash on the horizon.

 Sedano lit another cigar and smoked it slowly.

 After a few minutes he saw the shape of a man

 making his way along the aisle toward him. The man

 sagged down on the bench several feet away.

 "Good game tonight."...The man was the stadium keeper,

 Alfredo Garcia.

 "Yes."

 "Your brother, El Ocho, was magnificent. Such

 talent, such presence."

 "We are very proud of him."

 "Why do you call him El Ocho?"

 "He was the eighth child. He has the usual half

 dozen names, but his brothers and I just call him

 Ocho."

 "I saw that she was here, with her security guards

 circling. ... What did she say?"

 "What makes you think she tells me anything?"

 "Come, my friend. Someone whispers in your ear."

 "And someone is whispering to Alejo Vargas."

 "You suspect me?"

 "I think you are just stupid enough to take money from the

 Americans and money from Alejo Vargas and think

 neither of them will find out about the other."

 STEPHEN COONTS

 "My God, man! Think of what you are

 sayingff"...Alfredo moved closer. Sedano could see

 his face, which was almost as white as his shirt.

 "I am thinking."

 "You have my life in your hands. I had to (rust you

 with my life when I first approached you. Nothing has

 changed."

 Sedano puffed on the cigar in silence,

 studying Garcia's features. Born in America

 of Cuban parents, Garcia had been a priest.

 He couldn't leave the women alone, however, and

 ultimately got mixed up with some topless dancers

 running an "escort"...service in East St.

 Louis. After a few months the feds busted him for

 violation of the Mann Act, moving women across state

 lines for immoral purposes, i.e.,

 prostitution. After the church canned him, he jumped

 bail and fled to Cuba. Garcia had been in Cuba

 several years when he was recruited by the CIA, which

 asked him to approach Sedano.

 Hector Sedano had no doubt that Garcia had the

 ear of the American governmentin the past four years

 he had supplied Sedano with almost a million

 dollars in cash and enough weapons to supply a small

 army. The money and weapons always arrived when and where

 Garcia said they would. Still, the question remained, who

 else did the man talk to?

 Who did his control talk to?

 Hector had stockpiled the weapons, hidden them

 praying they would never be needed. He used the money for

 travel expenses and bribes. Without money

 to bribe the little fish he would have landed in prison

 years ago.

 Hector Sedano shook his head to clear his thoughts.

 He was living on the naked edge, had been there for

 years. And life wasn't getting any easier.

 "Castro is dyingea"...he said. "It is a matter of

 weeks, or so the doctors say."

 Alfredo Garcia took a deep breath and exhaled

 audibly.

 "I tell you now man-to-man, Alfredo. The

 records of Alejo Vargas will soon be placed in

 my hands. If you have

 betrayed me or the people of Cuba, you had better find

 a way to get off this planet, because there is no

 place on it you can hide, hot from me, not from the

 CIA, not from the men and women you betrayed."

 "I have betrayed no one,".alfredo Garcia said.

 "God? Yes. But no rnan."

 He went away then, leaving Sedano to smoke in

 solitude.

 Fidel Castro dying! Hector Sedano could hear

 his heart beat as he tried to comprehend the reality of

 that fact.

 Millions of people were waiting for his death, some

 patiently, most impatiently, many with a feeling of

 impending . doom. Castro had ruled Cuba as an

 absolute dictator since

 1959: the revolution that he led did nothing more than

 topple the old dictator and put a new one in his

 place. Castro jettisoned fledgling

 democracy, embraced communism and used raw

 demagoguery to consolidate his total, absolute

 power. He prosecuted and executed his enemies and

 confiscated the property of anyone who might be against

 him. Hundreds of thousands of Cubans fled, many

 to America.

 Castro's embrace of communism and seizure of the

 assets of the foreign corporations that had invested in

 Cuba, assets worth several billions of

 dollars, were almost preordained, inevitable.

 Predictably, most of those corporations were

 American. Also predictably, the

 United.states government retaliated with a

 diplomatic and economic blockade that continued

 to this day.

 After seizing the assets of the American corporations

 who owned most of Cuba, Castro had little choice:

 he had to have the assistance of a major power, so he

 substituted the Soviet Union for the United

 States as Cuba's patron. The only good thing

 about the substitution was that the Soviet Union was a

 lot farther away than Florida. Theirs was

 never a partnership of equals: the Soviets

 humiliated Fidel at almost every turn in the road.

 When communism collapsed in the Soviet Union

 in the early 1990's, Cuba was cut adrift as

 an expensive luxury that the newly democratic

 STEPHEN COONTS

 Russia could ill afford. That twist of fate was a

 cruel blow to Cuba, which despite Castro's best

 efforts still was a slave to sugarcane.

 Through it all, Castro survived. Never as popular

 as his supporters believed, he was never as

 unpopular as the exiles claimed. The truth of the

 matter was that Castro was Cuban to the core and

 fiercely independent, and he had kept Cuba that

 way. His demagoguery played well to poor

 peasants who had nothing but their pride. The

 trickle of refugees across the Florida

 Straits acted as a safety valve to rid the

 regime of its worst enemies, the vociferous

 critics with the will and tenacity to cause serious

 problems. In the Latin tradition, the Cubans who

 remained submitted to Castro, even respected him

 for thumbing his nose at the world. A dictator he

 might be, but he was "our"...dictator.

 A new day was about to dawn in Cuba, a day

 without Castro and the baggage of communism, ballistic

 missiles, and invasion, a new day without bitter

 enmity with the United States. Just what that day would

 bring remained to be seen, but it was coming.

 The exiles wanted justice, and revenge; the

 peons who lived in the'exiles' houses, now many

 families to a building, feared being dispossessed.

 The foreign corporations that Castro so cavalierly

 robbed wanted compensation. Everyone wanted food, and

 jobs, and a future. It seemed as if the bills for

 all the past mistakes were about to come due and payable

 at once.

 Hector Sedano would have a voice in that future,

 if he survived. He sat smoking, contemplating

 the coming storm.

 Mercedes was of course correct about the danger

 posed by Alejo Vargas. Mix Latin machismo

 and a willingness to do violence to gain one's own ends,

 add generous dollops of vainglory, egotism, and

 paranoia, stir well, and you have the makings of a

 truly fine Latin American dictator,

 selfrighteous, suspicious, trigger-happy, and

 absolutely ruthless. Fidel Alejandro Castro

 Ruz came out of that mold: Alejo Vargas,

 Hector knew, was merely another. He

 could

 not make this observation to Mercedes, whom Hector

 suspected of loving Fidelhe needed her

 cooperation.

 Alfredo Garcia found a seat near the

 ticket-taker's booth from where he could see the

 shadowy figure on the top row of the bleachers. He

 was so nervous he twitched.

 Like Hector Sedano, he too was in awe of the

 news he had just learned: Fidel Castro was dying.

 Alfredo Garcia trembled as he thought about it. That

 priest in the top row of the bleachers was one of the

 contenders for power in post-Castro Cuba. There were

 others of course, Alejo Vargas, the Minister of

 Interior and head of the secret police,

 prominently among them.

 Yes, Garcia talked to the secret police of

 Alejo Vargas he had to. No one could refuse

 the Department of State Security, least of all a

 fugitive from American justice seeking

 sanctuary.

 And of course he cooperated on an ongoing basis.

 Vargas's spies were everywhere, witnessed every conversation,

 every meal, every waking moment... or so it seemed. One

 could never be certain what the secret police

 knew from other sources, what they were just guessing at,

 what he was their only source for. Garcia had handled

 this reality the only way he could: he answered

 direct questions with a bit of the truthif he knew itand

 volunteered nothing.

 If the secret police knew Alfredo had a

 CIA contact they had never let on. They did know

 Hector Sedano was a power in the underground although they

 seemed to think he was a small fish.

 Garcia thought otherwise. He thought Hector

 Sedano was the most powerful man in Cuba after

 Fidel Castro, even more powerful than Alejo

 Vargas.

 Why didn't Hector understand the excruciating

 predicament that Alfredo Garcia found himself in?

 Certainly Hector knew what it was like to have few

 options, or none at all.

 Alfredo was a weak man. He had never been able

 to

 STEPHEN COONTS

 resist the temptations of the flesh. God had forgiven

 him, of that he was sure, but would Hector Sedano?

 As he sat in the darkness watching Hector,

 Alfredo Garcia smiled grimly. One of the

 contenders for power in po/castro Cuba would

 be Hector's own brother, Maximo Lufs

 Sedano, the finance minister. Maximo was Fidel's

 most trusted lieutenant, one of his inner circle.

 Three years older than Hector, he had lived

 and breathed Castro's revolution all his life,

 willingly standing in the great man's shadow. Those days

 were about over, and Maximo's friends whispered that he was

 readyhe wanted

 more.

 That was the general street gossip that Garcia heard,

 and like most gossip, he thought it probably had a

 kernel of truth inside.

 For his part, Maximo probably thought his only

 serious rival was Alejo Vargas. He was going

 to get a bad shock in the near future.

 And then there were the exiles. God only knew what

 those fools would do when Fidel breathed his last.

 Yes, indeed, when Fidel died the fireworks would

 begin.

 Hector Sedano was taking the last few puffs on

 his cigar when his youngest brother, El Ocho, climbed

 the bleachers. Ocho settled onto a bench in front

 of Hector and leaned back so that he could rest his

 feet on the bench in front of him.

 "You played well tonight. The home run was a

 thing of beauty."

 "It's just a game."

 "And you play it well."

 Ocho snorted. "Just a gameea"...he repeated.

 "All of life is a gameea"...his older brother

 told him, and ground out his cigar. .

 "Was that Mercedes I saw talking to you earlier?"

 "She is here for

 Mima's

 birthday."

 Ocho nodded. He seemed to gather himself before he

 spoke again.

 "My manager, Diego Coca, wants me to go

 to the United States."

 Hector let that statement lie there. Sometimes Ocho

 said outrageous things to get a reaction. Hector

 had quit playing that game years ago.

 "Diego says I could play in the major

 leagues."

 "Do you believe him?""

 Ocho turned toward his older brother and closest

 friend. "Diego is a dreamer. I look good playing

 this game because the other players are not so good. The

 pitch I hit out tonight was a belt-high fastball right

 down the middle. American major league

 pitchers don't throw stuff like that because all those guys

 can hit it."

 "Could you pitch there?"

 "In Cuba my fastball is a little faster than

 everyone else's. My curve breaks a little more. In

 America all the pitchers have a good fastball and

 breaking ball. Everyone is better."

 Hector laughed. "So you aren't interested in going

 to America and getting rich, like your uncle

 Tomas"..."...Tomas had defected ten years ago

 while a team of baseball stars was on a trip

 to Mexico City. He now owned five drycleaning

 plants in metropolitan Miami. Oh, yes,

 Tomas was getting rich!

 "I'm not good enough to play in the big leagues.

 Diego tells me I am. I think he believes

 it. He wants me to go, take him with me, sign a

 big contract. I'm his chance."

 "He wants to go with you?"

 "That's right."

  "On a boat?"

 "He says he knows a man who has a boat.

 He can take us to Florida, where people will be waiting."

 "You believe that?"

 "Diego does. That is what is

 important."

 "You owe Diego a few hours of sweat on the

 baseball field, nothing else."

 STEPHEN COONTS

 Ocho didn't reply. He lay back on his

 elbows and wiggled his feet.

 "Why don't you tell me all of it"..."...Hector

 suggested gently.

 Ocho didn't look at him. After a bit he said,

 "I got Diego's daughter pregnant. Dora,

 the second one."

 "He knows this?"

 Ocho nodded affirmatively.

 "So marry the girl. This is an embarrassment, not

 dishonor. My God,

 Mima

 was pregnant when Papa married her! Welcome

 to the world, Ocho. And congratulations."

 "Diego is the

 girl's father."

 "I will talk to himea"...Hector said. "You are both

 young, with hot blood in your veins. Surely he will

 understand. I will promise him that you will do the right thing by this

 girl. You will stand up with her in church, love her,

 cherish her...."

 "Diego wants the best for her, for the baby, for

 me."

 "For himself."

 "And for himself, yes. He wants us to go on his friend's

 boat to America. I will play baseball and earn

 much money and we will live the good life in America.

 That is his dream."

 "I seeea"...sd Hector Sedano, and leaned back

 against the fence. "Is it yours?"

 "I haven't told anyone elseea"...Ocho said,

 meaning the family.

 "Are you going to tell

 Mimal"

 "Not on her birthday. I thought maybe you could tell

 her, after we get to America."

 "Estd loco,

 Ocho. This boat... you could all drown.

 Hundredsthousands of people have drowned out there. The sea

 swallows them. They leave here and are never heard from

 again."

 Ocho studied his toes.

 "If they catch you, the Americans will send you

 back. They don't want boat people."

 "Diego Coca says that"

 "Damn Diego Coca! The Cuban

 Navy will probably catch you before you get out of

 sight of

 Mima's

 house. Pray that they do, that you don't die out there in

 the Gulf Stream. And if you are lucky enough

 to survive the trip to Florida, the Americans will

 arrest you, put you in a camp at Guantanamo

 Bay. Even if you get back to Cuba, the

 government won't let you play baseball again.

 You'll spend your life in the fields chopping

 cane. Think about

 thatl"

 Ocho sat silently, listening to the insects.

 "Did you give Diego Coca money"..."...Hector

 asked.

 "Yes."

 "Want to tell me how much?"

 "No."

 "You're financing his dream, Ocho."

 "At least he's got one."

 "What's that mean?"

 "It means what I said. At least Diego Coca

 has a dream. He doesn't want to sit rotting

 on this goddamned island while life passes him

 by. He doesn't want that for his daughter

 or her kid."

 "He doesn't want that for himself."

 Ocho threw up his hands.

 Hector pressed on, relentlessly. "Diego

 Coca should get on that boat and follow his dream,

 if that is his dream. You and Dora should get married.

 Announce the wedding tomorrow at

 Mima's

 party^the people are your flesh and blood. Cuba is your

 country, your heritage. You owe these people and this country

 all that you are, all that you will ever be."

 "Cuba is

 your

 dream, Hector."

 "And what is yours? I ask you a second time."

 Ocho shook his head like a mighty bull. "I do not

 wish to spend my life plotting against the government,

 making speeches, waiting to be arrested, dreaming of a

 Utopia that will never be. That is life wasted."

 Hector thought before he answered. "What you say is

 true. Yet until things change in Cuba it is

 impossible to dream other dreams."

 Ocho Sedano got to his feet. He was a tall,

 lanky young man with long, ropy muscles.

 "Just wanted you to knowea"...he said.

 "A man must have a dream that is larger than he is

 or life has little meaning."

 "Didn't figure you would think it was a good idea."

 "I don't."

 "Or else you would have gone yourself."

 "Ocho, I ask you a personal favor. Wait

 two weeks. Don't go for two weeks. See how

 the world looks in two weeks before you get on that

 boat."

 Hector could see the pain etched on Ocho's

 face. The younger man looked him straight in the

 eye.

 "The boat won't wait."

 "I ask this as your brother, who has never asked you

 for anything. I ask you for

 Mima,

 who cherishes you, and for Papa, who watches you from

 heaven. Have the grace to say yes to my request.

 Two weeks."

 "The boat won't wait, Hector. Diego

 wants this. Dora wants this. I have no choice."

 With that Ocho turned and leaped lightly from bench to bench

 until he got to the field. He walked across the

 dark, deserted diamond and disappeared into the home

 team's dugout.

 Although he was born in Cuba, El Gate's

 parents took him to Miami when he was a toddler,

 before the Cuban revo* lution. He had

 absolutely no memory of Cuba. In fact,

 he thought of himself as an American. English was the

 language he knew best, the language he thought

 in. He had learned Spanish at home as a

 youngster, understood it well, and spoke it with a

 flavored accent. Still, hearing nothing but Cuban

 Spanish spoken around him for days gave him a bit

 of cultural shock.

 He and two of his bodyguards had flown to Mexico

 City,

 V

 CUBA

 then to

 Havana.

 He had always kept His contacts with the Cuban

 government a deep, dark, jealously guarded

 secret, but rumors had reached him, rumors that

 Castro was sick, that important changes in

 Cuba were in the wind. The rumors had the feel of

 truth; his instincts told him.

 El Gato, the Cat, didn't get rich

 by ignoring his instincts. He decided to go to Cuba and

 take the risk of explaining it away later. If the

 exiles in Florida ever got the idea that he had

 double-crossed them, money or no money, they would

 take their revenge.

 Courage was one of El Gate's long suits.

 He didn't accumulate a fortune worth almost a

 half billion dollars by being timid. So he and his

 bodyguards boarded the plane. That was almost a week

 ago. He had been steadily losing money in the

 casinos every day since while waiting. Now the waiting

 was over.

 Tonight he was to see the man he came to meet,

 Alejo Vargas. In five minutes.

 He checked his watch, then pocketed his chips and

 walked for. the door of the club, the Tropicana, the

 jewel of Havana. His bodyguards joined him, like

 shadows.

 El Gato left the casino via the back entrance.

 The three men walked a block to a large black

 limousine sitting by the curb and climbed into the rear

 seats.

 Two men were sitting on the front-facing seats.

 "El Gato, welcome to Havana. I confess,

 I didn't think we would ever meet on

 Cuban comsoil."

 "Miracles never cease, Senor Vargas. The

 world turns, the sun rises and sets and we all

 get older day by day. Wise men change with the times."

 "Quite so. This is Colonel Santana, head of the

 Department of State Security:"

 El Gato nodded politely at Santana, then

 introduced his bodyguards, men Santana didn't

 even bother to look at.

 "I was hoping, Senor Vargas, that you and I might

 have a private conversation, perhaps while these gentlemen

 watched from a small distance?"

 Vargas nodded Ms assent, pushed a button, and

 spoke into an intercom to the driver. After about

 fifteen minutes of travel, during which nothing was

 said, the limo pulled up to a curb and all the men

 got out. The car was sitting on a breakwater near

 Morro Castle, with the dark battlements looming

 above them in the glare of Havana reflecting off the

 clouds.

 Vargas and El Gato began strolling.

 "The cargo is aboardea"...El Gato said, "and the ship

 has sailed. I presume you kept me waiting

 to see if that event would occur."

 "When you proposed this operation, I had my

 doubts. I still do."

 "I cannot guarantee successea"...El Gato said.

 "I do everything within my power to make success

 possible, but sometimes the world does not turn my way.

 I understand that, and I keep trying anyway."

 'The waiting will soon be overea"...Vargas said.

 "Indeed. In many ways. I hear rumors that

 Fidel will not be with us much longer."

 Vargas didn't reply to that remark.

 "Change is rapidly coming to Cubaea"...El Gato

 began, "and the thought occurred to me that a man with friends in

 Cuba under the new order would be in an enviable

 position."

 "You have such friends?"

 "I am here to test the water, so to speak, to learn if

 I, do."

 "After your years of opposition to Castro, any friends

 you have will not be very vocal about it."

 "Noisy friends I have aplenty in Florida. No,

 the kind of friends I need are the kind who keep their

 friendship to themselves and help when help is needed, who

 give approvals when asked, who nod yes at the

 appropriate time."

 "How much money have you given the exiles"

 political movements over the years?"

 "You wish to know the figure?"

 "Yes. I wish to learn if you will be honest with me.

 Obviously I have sources and some idea of the amount.

 Come now, impress me with your frankness and your

 honesty."

 "Over five million Americanea"...El Gato

 said.

 This was twice the figure Vargas expected, and he

 looked at the American sharply. If El Gato

 was lying, exaggerating the number to impress Vargas,

 it didn't show in his face.

 "Some of that money, a small amount it is true,

 came directly from the Cuban governmentea"...El

 Gato said. "I believe you authorized those

 payments."

 "You have a sense of the sardonic, I seeea"...Vargas

 said without humor. One got the impression he had not

 smiled in his lifetime, nor would he.

 El Gato nodded.

 "You had a commodity to sell, we wished to buy. We

 paid a fair price."

 "Come, come, Senor Vargas. Let's not pretend

 with each other. I arranged for you to acquire the

 equipmenteaand chemicals necessary to create a

 biological warfare program. What you have done with

 those chemicals and equipment

 1 don't know, nor do I want to know. But you know

 as well as I that if the American government found

 out about the sale I would be ruined. And you know that I

 made no profit in the transaction."

 Vargas nodded, a dip of the head.

 "Nor have I asked for money for arranging to steal

 Nuestra Senora."

 "That is true, but if the operation succeeds, we would

 have paid a fair amount."

 "I do not want your money."

 "You want something. What?"

 El Gato walked a few paces with his hands in his

 pockets before he spoke. "After Castro I

 envision a Cuba much more friendly to American

 interests, more open to a free flow of capital in and

 out. A great many people in the

 United States have a great deal of money

 accumulated that they want to invest in Cuba, which they

 will do as soon as the United States government

 allows them to do so, and as soon as the Cuban

 government guarantees these investors that their investment

 will not be confiscated or stolen with hidden taxes or

 demands for graft. A man who could

 guarantee that his friends would be fairly treated in

 Cuba could make a lot of money. He would be a

 patron, if you will. And if he carefully screened

 his friends, Cuba would get a vetted flow of capable

 investors who would perform as promised."

 "Something for everyoneea"...Vargas said.

 "Precisely."

 "Just so that I understandare you suggesting that you want to be

 that man,

 el jefecitol"

 "I could do it, I believe."

 "The exiles expect to come to Cuba at Castro's

 death and take over the country. They want

 billions in repatriations! I tell you now, you have

 helped fuel their expectations with your five

 million dollars."

 What he failed to mention was the fact that the Cuban

 government had played to the fears of the peons who

 stayed, telling them they would be thrown from their

 homes"...if the exiles ever returned.

 El Gato smiled. "Like the exiles, you fail

 to clearly see the situation. They are Americans.

 They make more money in America than they ever could in

 Cuba. They will never return in significant

 numbers. In fact, if the borders are

 thrown open, the net human flow will be toward the

 United States, not back to Cuba. If the

 American government would allow it, a million

 Cubans a year would leave this island. You would be

 wise to let people go where they wish to go."

 "You are saying the exile problem will just disappear?"

 "Except for a few bitter old men, yes, I

 believe it will. The young ones have gotten on with their

 lives. They have no old scores to settle."

 "So you betray these old ones for your own profit?"

 "Senor Vargas, if they wish to nurse old

 grudges and dream of a time which is long past and will

 never come again, who am I to tell them no? Most of

 these people are quite harmless. Those who aren't can be dealt with

 when they cause problems. A public apology

 to dispossessed old people, a plea for healing, a few

 pesos, and the exiles could be appeased."

 "Assassination plots against Castro and the like?"

 "Plots that never get off the ground are harmless.

 Let them have their meetings and their thunderous

 denunciations. These people will pass from the scene soon

 enough."

 Vargas made a gesture of irritation. He had his

 own opinions and didn't really wish to hear

 other people's. "Colonel Santana will take you and

 your men to your hotel."

 "Thank you."

 "I can promise you very little, El Gato. I understand

 that you cannot guarantee the future, but the North

 Koreans must fulfill their part of our bargain. If

 they do, there is a chance, just a chance, that I may

 rule after Castro."

 El Gato waited.

 Vargas continued: "I will not forget what you did for

 me, for Cuba. If the day ever comes when I am in

 a position to help you, feel free to ask. What

 I can do then will have to be decided upon that day."

 "That is more than I hoped forea"...El Gato said,

 genuine warmth obvious in his voice. "I thank you

 for that promise."

 The F-14 Tomcat hung suspended in an

 infinite blue sky, over an infinite blue sea.

 Or so it seemed to Jake Grafton, who sat in

 the front cockpit taking it all in. Behind him

 Toad Tarkington was working the radar, searching the sky

 ahead. The air was dead calm today, so without a

 visual reference there was no sensation of motion. The

 puffy clouds on the surface of the sea seemed to be

 marching uniformly toward the rear of the

 aircraft, almost as if the sky were spinning under the

 airplane.

 The fighter was cruising at 31,000 feet, heading

 northwestward parallel with the southern coast of

 Cuba, about a hundred and fifty miles offshore.

 "I sure am glad you got us off the ship,

 sirea"...Tarkington said cheerfully. "A little flying

 helps clean out the pipes, keeps everything in

 perspective."

 "That it doesea"...Jake agreed, and stretched.

 He had the best job in the navy, he thought. As a

 battle group commander he could still flyindeed, an

 occasional flight was part of the job description.

 Yet his flying days would soon be over: in just two

 months he was scheduled to turn over the command to another

 admiral and be on his way somewhere.

 He searched the empty sky automatically as he

 thought again about where the next set of orders might send

 him. If the people in the flag detailing office in the

 Pentagon had a clue, they certainly weren't

 talking.

 Ah, it would all work out. The powers that be would send

 him another set of orders or retire him, and it

 really

 39

 didn't matter much which way it went. Everyone has

 to move on sooner or later, so why not now?

 Maybe he should just submit his retirement papers,

 get on with the rest of his life.

 With his right hand he hit the emergency disconnect for the

 autopilot, which worked as it should.

 Without touching the throttles, Jake Grafton

 smoothly lifted the nose and began feeding in left

 stick. Nose climbing, wing dropping ... rolling

 smoothly through the in-- verted position, though with

 only seventy degrees of heading change. The

 nose continued downkeep the roll inffandthe G

 increased as the fighter came out of the dive and back

 to the original heading, only 1,400 below the entry

 altitude. Ta-ta! There you have ita sloppy

 barrel roll!

 Jake kept the stick back and started a barrel

 roll to the right.

 "Are you okay up there, sir"..."...Toad Tarkington

 asked anxiously.

 "You ask that of me? The world's fine'st acrobatic

 pilot? Have you no respect?"

 "These whifferdills are not quite up to your usual

 worldclass standards, so one wonders. Could it be

 illness, decrepitude, senility?"

 They were passing the inverted positon when Jake said,

 "Just for that, Tarkington, you can put us on the flight

 schedule every day so we can practice. An hour and a

 half of high-G maneuvers seven times a week

 will teach you to respect your elders."

 "You got that rightea"...Toad replied, and moaned as if

 he were in pain as Jake lifted the Tomcat into a

 loop.

 "War Ace One Oh Four, this is Sea Hawk.

 You have traffic to the northwest, one hundred miles,

 heading south at about 30,000."

 "Roger, Sea Hawk.",

 Coming down the back side of the loop, Jake turned

 to the northwest.

 STEPHEN COONTS

 "Admiral, I know you think I was loafing back

 hereea"...Toad said obsequiously, "but I had that guy

 on the scope. Honest! I was just gonna say something

 when that E-2 guy beat me to the switch."

 "Sure, Toad. These things happen. If you're

 going to nap, next time bring a pillow."

 "This guy is coming south, like he's out of some base in

 central Cuba, about our altitude. Heck of a

 coincidence, huh?"

 The F-14 had an optical camera mounted in the

 nose that was slaved to the radar cross-hairs.

 "Tell me when you see himea"...Jake murmured.

 "Be a couple miles yet. Let's come right ten

 degrees just for grins and see what happens."

 Jake again had the fighter on autopilot. He

 pushed the stick right, then leveled on the new

 course.

 At fifty miles Toad had the other airplane

 on the screen of his monitor. A silver

 airplane, fighter size, with the sun glinting off its

 skin. The electronic conntermeasures (Ecm)

 panel lit up as the F-14's sensors picked

 up the emissions of the other plane's radar.

 "A MiGo-29ea"...Jake said.

 "What's he doing out here"..."...Toad wondered.

 "Same thing as we are. Out flying around seeing what

 is what."

 "I thought th@lCubans had retired their

 MiGo-29's. Couldn't keep paying the bills on

 "em.". "Well, at least one is still operational."

 .

 Even as they watched, the MiGo altered course to the

 left so that he would have a chance to turn in behind the

 F-14 when their flight paths converged.

 Jake Grafton was suddenly sure he didn't

 want the MiGo behind him. The Soviets

 specifically designed the MiGo-29 to be able

 to defeat the F-14, F-15, F-16 and

 FirstA-18 in close combat; it was,

 probably, the second-best fighter in the world (the

 best being the Sukhoi Su-27 Flanker). Jake

 altered course so the two planes would converge

 head-on.

 What would the MiGo pilot do?

 If the Cuban pilot opened fire over the ocean,

 over a hundred miles from land, who would ever know?

 "Sea Hawk, One Oh Four, are you getting this

 on tape?"

 "Yes, sir. We're recording."

 "This bogey is a MiGo-29."

 "Roger that. We've been tracking him for

 twenty-five minutes now."

 The range was closing rapidly, but still Jake

 didn't see the MiG. He looked at the target

 dot in the heads-up display, but the sky was huge and the

 Cuban fighter too far away, although it was almost as

 large as the F-14.

 The MiGo was about four miles away when

 Jake finally saw it, a winged silver glint that shot

 by just under his right wing. Jake Grafton disconnected

 the autopilot and slammed the stick over.

 He pulled carefully, cleanly, craned his head and

 braced himself with his left hand as he kept the turning

 MiGo in sight.

 The Cuban fighter rolled out of his turn heading

 north. Jake leveled out on a parallel course.

 Careful not to point his nose at the Cuban, Jake

 let the Tomcat drift closer on a converging

 course.

 When the planes were less than a hundred yards

 apart, he slowed the closure rate but kept moving

 in.

 Finally the two planes were in formation with their wingtips

 about twenty yards apart.

 "Look at that thing, would you"..."...Toad enthused. "Have you

 ever seen a more gorgeous airplane?"

 "I hear it's a real dream machineea"...Jake

 agreed.

 "Oh, baby, the lines, the curves ... The

 Russians sure know how to design flying

 machines."

 "If this guy has to jump out of that thingea"...Jake

 asked Toad, "do you think Cuban

 Air-Sea Rescue is going to come pick him

 up?"

 "I doubt itea"...Toad replied. "And I suspect

 he knows that."

 "He's got a set of cojones on himea"...Jake

 said. "Bet he can fly the hell out of that thing,

 too."

 In the Cuban fighter, Major Carlos

 Corrado took his time looking over the American

 plane. This was the first time he had ever seen an

 F-14. Amazing how big they were, with the two men

 and the missiles under the wings.

 Carlos was lucky he had this hunk of hot

 Russian iron to fly, technical generations ahead

 of the MiGo-19's and 21's that equipped the bulk

 of Cuba's tactical squadrons, and he damn

 well knew it. Cuba owned three dozen

 MiGo-29's and had precisely one operationalthis

 onewhich Corrado kept flying by the simple

 expedient of cannibalizing parts from the others.

 He checked his fuel. He had enough, just enough,

 to get home. Sure, he had no business being out

 here over the ocean, but he wanted to fly today and the

 Cuban ground control intercept (Gci)

 controller said the American was here. One thing

 led to another and here he was.

 Now Carlos Corrado was on course to return

 to his base near the city of Cienfuegos, on

 Cuba's southern coast. He checked the compass, the

 engine instruments, then turned back to studying the

 American plane, which hung there on the end of his wing

 as if it were painted on the sky.

 A minute went by, then the man in the front seat

 of the American plane raised his hand and waved.

 Carlos returned the gesture as the big American

 fighter turned away to the right and immediately began

 falling behind. Carlos twisted his body in his seat

 to keep the F-14 in sight for as long as possible.

 Big as it was, the F-14 disappeared into the

 eastern sky with startling rapidity.

 Carlos Corrado turned in his seat and eased the

 position of his butt.

 The Americans were two or three technical

 generations beyond the Cubans, so far ahead that most

 Cuban military men regarded American

 capabilities as almost superhuman. They had read

 of the Gulf War, of the satellites and com-

 puters and smart weapons. Unlike his

 colleagues, Corrado was not frightened by the

 Americans. Impressed by their military

 capability, but not frightened.

 If I were smarter,

 he thought now, still

 would be frightened.

 But the Americans and Cubans would never fight.

 They had not fought since the Bay of Pigs and

 doubtless never would. Castro would soon be gone and a

 new government would take over and Cuba would become

 a new American suburb, another little beach island

 baking in the sun south of Miami, Key Cuba.

 When that happy day came, Carlos Corrado

 told himself, he was going to America and get a

 decent flying job that paid real money.

 Dona Maria Vieuda de Sedano's daughters

 arrived first, in the early afternoon, tocom tidy up and do

 the cooking for the guests. They had married local men

 who worked the sugarcane and saw her every day. In

 truth, they looked after her, helped her dress,

 prepared her meals, cleaned and washed the clothes.

 It was infuriating to be disabled, to be unable to

 do backslash

 The arthritis that crippled her hands and feet made

 even simple tasks difficult and complex tasks

 out of the question.

 Dona Maria managed to shuffle to her favorite

 chair on the tiny porch without help. Her small

 house sat on the western edge of the village. From the

 porch she could see several of her neighbors"

 houses and a wide sweep of the road. Across the road

 was a huge field of cane. A canecooking

 factory stood about a half mile farther west.

 When the harvest began, the stacks belched smoke and the

 fumes of cooking sugar drifted for miles on the

 wind.-

 Beyond all this, almost lost in the'distance, was the blue

 of the ocean, a thin line just below the horizon, bluer

 than the distant sky. The wind coming in off the sea

 kept the temperature down and prevented insects from

 becoming a major nuisance.

 The porch was the only thing Dona Maria really

 liked about the house, though after fifty-two years in

 residence

 God knows she had some memories. Small, just

 four rooms, with a palm-leaf roof, this house had

 been the center of her adult life. Here she moved

 as a young bride with her husband, bore her children,

 raised them, cried and laughed with them, buried two

 of the ten, watched the others grow up and marry and move

 away. And here she watched her husband die

 of cancer.

 He had died... sixteen years ago, sixteen

 years in November.

 You never think about outliving your spouse when you are

 young. Never think about what comes afterward, after happiness,

 after love. Then, too soon, the never-thoughtab

 future arrives.

 She sat on the porch and looked at the clouds

 floating above the distant ocean, almost like ships,

 sailing someplace. ...

 She had lived her whole life upon this island, every day

 of it, had never been farther from this house than

 Havana, and that on just two occasions: once when she

 was a teenage girl, on a marvelous expedition with

 her older sister, and once when her son Maximo was

 sworn in as the minister of finance.

 She had met Fidel Castro on that visit to the

 capital, felt the power of his personality, like a

 fire that warmed everyone within range. Oh, what a

 man he was, tall, virile, comfull of life.

 No wonder Maximo orbited Fidel's star. His

 brother Jorge, her eldest, had been one of

 Castro's most dedicated disciples, espousing

 Marxism and Cuban nationalism, refusing to listen

 to the slightest criticism of his hero.

 Jorge, dead of heart failure at the age of

 forty-two, another dreamer.

 All the Sedanos were dreamers, she thought,

 povertystricken dreamers trapped on this sun-washed

 island in a sun-washed sea, isolated from the rest of

 humankind,

 the

 rest of the species....

 She thought of Jorge when she saw Mercedes, his

 widow, climb from the car. The men in the car glanced

 at her seated on the porch, didn't wave, merely

 drove on, leaving Mercedes standing in the road.

 "Hola, Mima."

 Jorge, cheated of life with this woman, whom he

 loved more than anything, more than Castro, more than his

 parents, more than

 anything,

 for the Sedanos were also great lovers.

 "Hola,

 my pretty one. Come sit beside me."

 As she stepped on the porch, Dona Maria said,

 "Thank you for coming."

 "It is nothing. We both loved Jorge...."

 "Jorge..."

 Mercedes looked at Maria's hands, took them in

 her own, as if they weren't twisted and crippled.

 She kissed the older woman, then sat on a bench

 beside her and looked at the sea.

 "It is still there. It never changes."

 "Not like we do."

 The emotions twisted Mercedes's insides, made

 her eyes tear. Here in this place she had had so

 much, then with no warning it was gone, as if a mighty

 tide had swept away all that she valued, leaving

 only sand and rock.

 Jorgeoh, what a man he was, a dreamer and

 lover and believer in social justice. A true

 believer, without a selfish bone in his body ... and of

 course he had died young, before he realized how much

 reality differed from his dreams.

 He lived and died a crusader for justice and

 Cuba and all of that... and left her to grow old

 alone ... lonely in the night, looking for someone who

 cared about something besides himself.

 She bit her lip and looked down at Dona

 Maria's hands, twisted and misshapen. On

 impulse leaned across and kissed the older woman on

 the cheek.

 "God bless you, dear childea"...Dona Maria

 said.

 Ocho came walking along the road, trailed by four

 of the neighborhood children who were skipping and laughing

 and trying to make him smile. When he turned in at

 his mother's gate, the children scampered away.

 Everyone on the porch turned and looked at him,

 called a greeting as he quickly covered the three or

 four paces of the path. Ocho was the Greek god,

 with the dark hair atop a perfect head1, a

 perfect face, a perfect body ... tall, with

 broad shoulders and impossibly narrow hips, he

 moved like a cat. He dominated a room,

 radiating masculinity like a beacon, drawing the

 eyes of every woman mere. Even his mother couldn't take

 her eyes from him, Mercedes noted, and grinned

 wryly. This last childshe bore Ocho when she was

 forty-foureven Dona Maria must wonder about the

 combination of genes that produced him.

 Normally an affable soul, Ocho had little to say this

 evening. He grunted monosyllables to everyone,

 kissed his mother and Mercedes and his sisters

 perfunctorily, then found a corner of the porch in which

 to sit.

 Women threw themselves at Ocho, and he never seemed

 to notice. It was almost as if he didn't

 want the women who wanted him. He was

 sufficiently different from most of the men Mercedes

 knew that she found him intriguing. And perhaps, she

 reflected, that was the essence of his charm.

 Maximo Lui's Sedano's sedan braked to a

 stop in a swirl of dust. He bounded from the car,

 strode toward the porch, shouting names, a wide grin

 on his face. He gently gathered his mother in his arms,

 kissed her on both her cheeks and forehead, kissed

 each hand, knelt to look into her face.

 Mercedes didn't hear what he said; he spoke

 only for his mother's ears. When she looked away from

 Maximo and his mother she was surprised to see

 Maximo's wife climbing the steps to the porch.

 Maximo's wifejust what

 was

 her name"...ccdemned forever to be invisible in the glare of the

 great man's spotlight.

 Another dominant personalitythe Sedanos

 certainly produced their share of thoseMaximo was a

 prisoner of his birth. Cuba was far too small for

 him. Amazingly, be-

 cause life rarely works out just right, he had found

 one of the few occupations in Castro's Cuba

 that allowed him to travel, to play on a wider

 field. As finance minister he routinely visited the

 major capitals of Europe, Central and South

 America.

 Just now he gave his mother a gift, which he opened for

 her as his sisters leaned forward expectantly, trying

 to see.

 French chocolates! He opened the box and let his

 mother select one, then passed the rare delicacy

 around to all.

 The sisters stared at the box, rubbed their fingers across

 the metallic paper, sniffed the- delicious scent,

 then finally, reluctantly, selected one candy and

 passed the box on.

 One of the sisters' husbands whispered to the other, just

 loud enough for Mercedes to overhear: "Would you look at

 that? We ate potatoes and plantains last month,

 all month, and were lucky to get them."

 The other brother-in-law whispered back, "For

 three days last week we had absolutely nothing.

 My brother brought us a fish."

 "Well, the dons in government are doing all right.

 That's the main thing."

 Mercedes sat listening to the babble of voices, idly

 comparing Maximo's clean, white hands to those

 of the sisters' husbands, rough, callused,

 work-hardened. If the men were different, the women

 weren't. Maximo's wife wore a chic,

 fashionable French dress as she sat now with Dona

 Maria's daughters, whispering with them, but inside the

 clothes she was still one of them in a way that Maximo

 would never be again. He had traveled too far, grown

 too big....

 Mercedes was thinking these thoughts when Hector arrived,

 walking along the road. Even Maximo stopped

 talking to one of his brothers, the doctor, when he

 saw Hector coming up the path to the porch.

 "Happy birthday,

 Mima."

 Hector, Jesuit priest, politician,

 revolutionary... he spoke softly to his mother,

 kissed her cheek, shook Maximo's hand, looked

 him in the eye as he ate a chocolate,

 kissed each of his sisters and touched the arms and hands of

 their husbands and his brothers, the doctor and the

 automobile mechanic.

 Ocho was watching Hector, waiting for him to reach for

 his hand, his lips quivering.

 Mercedes couldn't quite believe what she was seeing,

 Hector hugging Ocho, holding him and

 rocking back and forth, the young man near tears.v

 Then the moment passed.

 Hector refused to release his grip on his

 brother, led him to Dona Maria, gently made him

 sit at her feet and placed her hands in his.

 Ah, yes. Hector Sedano. If anyone could,

 it would be you.

 "They do not appreciate youea"...Maximo's wife

 told him as they rode back to Havana in his car.

 "They are so ignorantea"...she added, slightly

 embarrassed that she and her husband should'have to spend

 an evening with peasants in such squalid surroundings.

 Of course, they were his family and one had duties,

 but still... He had worked so hard to earn his standing and

 position, it was appalling that he should have to make a

 pilgrimage back to such squalor.

 And his relatives! The old woman, the sisters

 ... crippled, ignorant, dirty, uncouth ...

 it was all a bit much.

 And Hector, the priest who was a secret

 politician! A man who used the Church for

 counterrevolutionary treason.

 "Surely he must know that you are aware of his

 political activitiesea"...she remarked now to her

 husband, who frowned at the shacks and

 sugarcane fields they were driving past.

 "He knowsea"...Maximo murmured.

 "Europe was so niceea"...his wife said softly.

 "I don't mean to be uncharitable, but truly it is

 a shame that we must return to

 thisl"

 Maximo wasn't paying much attention.

 "I keep hoping that someday we shall go to Europe and

 never returnea"...she whispered. "I do love

 Madrid so."

 Maximo didn't hear that comment. He was wondering

 about Hector and Alejo Vargas. He couldn't

 imagine the two of them talking, but what if they had

 been? What if those two combined to plot against him?

 What could he do to guard against that possibility,

 to protect himself?

 Later that evening Hector and his sister-in-law,

 Mercedes, rode a bus into Havana. "It was good

 of you to stay for

 Mima's

 partyea"...Hector said.

 "I wanted to see her. She makes me think of

 Jorge."

 "Do you still miss him?"

 "I will miss him every day of my life."

 "Me tooea"...Hector murmured.

 "Vargas knows about youea"...she said, after glancing around

 to make sure no one else could hear her words.

 "What does he know?"

 "That you organize and attend political meetings,

 that you write to friends, that you speak to students, that most

 of the priests in Cuba are loyal to you, that many people

 all over this island look to you for leadership.... He

 knows that much and probably more."

 "It would be a miracle if none of that had reached the

 ears of the secret police."

 "He may arrest you."

 "He will do nothing without Fidel's approval. He

 is Fidel's dog."

 "And you think Fidel approves of your

 activities?"

 "I think he tolerates them. The man isn't

 immortal. Even he must wonder what will come after

 him."

 "You are playing with fire. Castro's hold on

 Vargas is weakening. Castro's death will give him

 a free hand. Do not underestimate him."

 "I do not. Believe me. But Cuba is more

 important than me, than Vargas, than

 Castro. If this country is ever going to be

 anything other than the barnyard of a tyrant, someone

 must plant seeds that have a chance of growing. Every per-

 son I talk to is a seed, an investment in the

 future."

 ""Barnyard of a tyrant." What a pretty

 phraseff"...Mercedes said acidly. The last few

 years, living with Fidel, she had developed a

 thick skin: people said the most vicious things about him and

 she had learned to ignore most of it. Still, she

 deeply admired Hector, so his words wounded her.

 "I'm sorry if I"

 She made sure her voice was under control, then

 said, "Dear Hector, Cuba is also the

 graveyard of a great many martyrs. There is room

 here for Vargas to bury us both."

 He was remembering the good days, the days when he had

 been young, under a bright sun, surrounded by happy,

 laughing comrades.

 All things had been possible back then. Bullets

 couldn't touch them, no one would betray them

 to Batista's men, they would save Cuba, save her

 people, make them prosperous and healthy and strong and

 happy. Oh, yes,

 when we were young

 ...

 As he tossed and turned, fighting the pain,

 snatches of scenes ran through his mind; student

 politics at the University of Havana, the

 assault on the Moncada Barracks in

 Santiago, guns banging and bullets spanging

 off steel, off masonry, singing as they whirled

 away.... He remembered the firelights on the

 roads, riding the trucks through the countryside,

 evenings making plans with Che and the others, how Jhey

 would set things right, kick out the capitalists who had

 enslaved Cuba for centuries.

 Che, he had been a true believer.

 And there were plenty more. True believers all.

 Ignorant as virgins, penniless and hungry, they

 thought they could fix the world.

 In his semiconscious state he could hear his own

 voice making speeches, explaining, promising

 to fix things," to heal the people, put them to work, give

 them jobs and houses and medical care and a future for

 their children.

 Words. All words.

 Wind.

 He coughed, and the coughing brought him fully awake.

 The nurse was there in the chair watching him.

 "Leave me, woman."

 She left the room.

 He pulled himself higher in the bed, used a corner

 of the sheet to wipe the sweat from his face.

 The sheets were thin, worn out. Even

 el presidents"?,

 sheets were worn out!

 A sick joke, that.

 Everything in the whole damned country was broken or

 worn out, including Castro's sheets. You didn't

 have to be a high government official to be aware of that

 hard fact.

 On the dresser just out of reach was a box of cigars.

 He hitched himself around in bed, reached for one, then

 leaned far over and got his hand on the lighter.

 The pain made him gasp.

 Madre mia!

 When the pain subsided somewhat he lay back in the

 bed, wiped his face again on the sheet.

 He fumbled with the cigar, bit off the end and spat it

 on the floor. Got the lighter going, sucked on the

 cigar... the raw smoke was like a knife in his

 throat. He hacked and hacked.

 The doctors made him give up cigars ten years

 ago. He demanded this box two days ago,

 when they told him he was dying. "If I am dying,

 I can smoke. The cancer will kill me before the

 cigars, so why not?"

 When the coughing subsided, he took a tiny puff

 on the cigar, careful not to inhale.

 God, the smoke was delicious.

 Another puff.

 He lay back on the pillow, sniffed the aroma of the

 smoke wafting through the air, inhaled the tobacco

 essence and let it out slowly as the cigar smoldered in

 his hand.

 The truth was that he had made a hash of it.

 Cuba's

 problems had defeated him. Oh, he had done the

 best he could, but by any measure, his best hadn't

 been good enough. The average Cuban was worse off

 today than he had been those last few years under

 Batista. Food was in short supply, the

 economy was in tatters, the bureaucrats were openly

 corrupt, the social welfare system was falling

 apart, and the nation reeled under massive short-term

 foreign debt, for it had defaulted on its

 long-term international debt in the late 1980's.

 The short-term debt could not be repudiated, not if

 the nation ever expecte'd to borrow another

 peso abroad.

 He puffed on the cigar, savoring the smoke. Then

 he shifted, trying to make the ache in his bowels

 ease up.

 Of course he knew what had gone wrong. When he

 took over the nation he had played the cards he had

 ... evicted the hated Yanqui

 imperialistas

 and seized their property, and accepted the cheers and

 adulation of the people for delivering them from the oppressor.

 Unfortunately Cuba was a tiny, poor country,

 so he had had to replace the evicted

 patrdn

 with another, and the only one in sight had been the

 Soviet Union. He embraced communism, got

 down on his knees and swore fealty to the Soviet

 state. With that act he earned the undying hatred of the

 politicians who ruled the United Statesafter

 several assassination attempts and the ill-fated

 Bay of Pigs invasion debacle, they declared

 economic warfare on Cuba. Then the cruelest

 twist of the knifethe Soviet Union collapsed in

 1990-91 and Cuba was cut adrift.

 Ah, he should have been wiser, should have realized that the

 United States would be the winning horse.

 The Spanish grandees had bled Cuba for

 centuries, worked the people as slaves, then as peons.

 After the Americans ran the Spanish off,

 American corporations put their men in the manor

 houses and life continued as before. The people were still slaves

 to the cane crop, living in abject poverty, unable

 to escape the company towns and the company stores.

 A few things did change under the Americans. The

 is-

 land became America's red light district, the

 home of the vice that was illegal on the American

 mainland: gambling, prostitution, drugs, and, during

 Prohibition, alcohol. Poor Catholic

 families sent their daughters to the cities to whore

 for the Yanquis.

 The capitalists bled Cuba until there was no

 blood left they would keep exploiting people the world

 over until there were no more people. Or no more

 capitalists. Until then, the capitalists would have

 all the money. He should have realized that fundamental

 truth.

 He had grown up hating the United States,

 hating Yanquis who drank and gambled and whored the

 nights away in Havana. He hated their

 diplomats, then- base at Guantanamo Bay,

 their smugness, their money ... he despised them and

 all their works, which was unfortunate, because America was

 a fact of life, like shit, A man could not escape

 it because it smelled bad.

 God had never given him the opportunity to destroy

 the Yanquis, because if He had ...

 Fidel Castro was intensely, totally Cuban.

 He personified the resentment the Cuban people felt

 because they had spent their lives begging for the scraps that

 fell from the rich men's table. Resentment was a vile

 emotion, like hatred and envy.

 Wellea"he was dying. Weeks, they said. A few

 weeks, more or less. The cancer was eating him

 alive.

 The painkillers were doing their jobat least he could

 sit up, think rationally, smoke the forbidden cigars,

 plan for Cuba's future.

 Cuba had a future, even if he didn't.

 Of course, the United States would play a

 prominent role in that future. With the great devil

 Fidel dead, all things were possible. The

 economic embargo would probably perish with him, a

 new

 presidente

 could bring ... what?

 He thought about that question as he puffed gingerly on the

 cigar, letting the smoke trickle out between his lips.

 For years Americans had paraded through the govern-

 ment offices in Havana talking about what might be

 after the economic embargo was lifted by their

 government. Always they had an angle, wanted a

 special dispensation from the Cuban government... and were

 willing to pay for it, of course. Pay handsomely.

 Now. Paper promises ... He had enjoyed

 taking their money.

 He had made no plans for a successor, had

 anointed no one. Some people thought his brother, Raul,

 might take over after him, but Raul was

 impotente,

 a lightweight.

 He would have to have his say now, while he was very much

 alive.

 But what should the future of Cuba be?

 The pain in his bowels doubled him up. He curled

 up in the bed, groaning, holding tightly to the cigar.

 After a minute or so the pain eased somewhat and he

 puffed at the cigar, which was still smoldering.

 Whoever came after him was going to have to make his peace

 with the United States. They were going to have to be

 selective about America's gifts, rejecting the

 bad while learning to profit from the good things, the

 gifts America had to give to the world.

 That had been his worst failinghe himself had never

 learned how to safely handle the American

 elephant, make the beast do his bidding. His

 successors would have to for the sake of the Cuban people.

 Cuba would never be anything if it remained a long,

 narrow sugarcane field and way point for cocaine

 smugglers. If that was all there was, everyone on the

 island might as well set sail for Miami.

 Maybe he should have left, said good-bye, thrown up

 his hands and retired to the Costa del Sol.

 Next time. Next time he would retire young, let

 the Cubans make it on their own.

 Like every man who ever walked the earth, Castro had

 been trapped by his own mistakes. The choices

 he made early in the game were irreversible. He

 and the Cuban people had been forced to live with the

 consequences. Life is like that, he reflected.

 Everyone must make his choices,

 wise or foolish, good or bad, and live with them;

 there is no going back.

 There is always the possibility of

 redemption, of course, but one cannot unmake the past.

 We have only the present. Only this moment.

 When the pain came this time, the cigar dropped from his

 fingers.

 He lay in the bed groaning, trying not to scream for the

 nurse. If he did, she would give him an

 injection, which would put him to sleep. The needle was

 going to give him peace during his final days, but he

 wasn't ready for it yet.

 The pain had eased somewhat when he felt a hand on

 his forehead. He opened his eyes. Mercedes.

 "You dropped your cigar on the floorea"...she

 whispered.

 "I know."

 "Shall I call the nurse?"

 "Not for a while."

 She used a damp cloth to wipe the perspiration from his

 face. The cloth felt good.

 "Light the cigar."

 She did so, put it in his hand. He managed one

 tiny puff.

 "You talked to Hector?"

 "Yes."

 "What did he say?"

 "He was surprised. He didn't know it

 would

 be

 so soon."

 "That was your impression?"

 "Yes."

 "And the tobacco deal with the Americans? What did

 Hector say when you told him about it?"

 "Just listened."

 "The birthday party, Maximo came?"

 "Yes. Brought a box of French chocolates and his

 wife, who wore a Paris frock."

 Fidel's lips twisted. He could imagine what the

 other people at the party thought of that. Maximo could charm

 foreign bankers and squeeze a peso until it

 squealed, but he was no politician.

 "Did you warn Hector about Alejo?"

 "Yes."

 "What did he say?"

 "He made light of it."

 Fidel thought about that. Remembered the cigar and took

 another puff.

 "He thinks the threat will be the generalsea"...he said

 finally, "but it won't. The generals don't know it,

 but the troops will follow Hector. Alejo

 Vargas is his most dangerous opponent,

 and if Hector Sedano doesn't understand that, they will

 bury him a few days after they bury me."

 "Admiral, next weekend when we're in the

 Virgin Islands, what say we put the barge in the

 water and go waterskiing?"

 The person asking the question was the admiral's aide, a

 young lieutenant who flew an FirstA-18 on her

 last cruise. Her boyfriend was still in one of the

 Hornet squadrons; the last time Jake

 Grafton approved the barge adventure, the

 boyfriend was invited to go along.

 Now Jake sighed. "I'm not sure where we're

 going to be next weekend, Beth."...He had no

 intention of getting very far from Guantanamo Bay

 while those warheads were still in that warehouse, but of

 course he couldn't say that. "Check with ops,

 Commander Tarkington."

 "Yes, sirea"...Beth said, trying to hide her

 disappointment.

 The new Chief of Staff, Captain Gil

 Pascal, Toad Tarkington, and the admiral had

 put their heads together, carefully listed the forces

 available should an emergency arise, and drafted a

 contingency plan. "Nothing's happened in all these

 yearsea"...Jake told them, "but Washington

 must have had a reason for telling us to keep an eye

 on the place. They must know something we don't."

 Gil Pascal met the admiral's gaze. He

 had reported to the staff just a week ago. "Sir,

 as I recall, the orders said to 'monitor" the

 loading of the weapons onto the container ship."

 ""Monitor""..."...muttered Jake Grafton.

 "What the hell does that mean? Is that some kind of

 New Age bureaucrat word? It doesn't mean

 anything."

 "I guess my question really is, how much force are you

 willing to use without authorization from Washington?"

 A faint smile crossed the lips of Toad

 Tarkington. Only a man who didn't know the

 admiral would ask that question. Anyone who started

 shooting in Jake Grafton's bailiwick had

 better be ready for a war, Toad, thought. He had

 managed to wipe off the smile by the time the admiral

 answered:

 "Whatever it takes to keep those warheads in

 American hands."

 Pascal took his time ordering his thoughts. "Shouldn't

 we be talking contingencies with Washington,

 Admiral?"

 Jake Grafton opened a top-secret message

 folder that lay on his desk in front of him. "I

 already sent a query to CNO. This is the answer."

 He passed the message to Pascal. "Monitor

 weapons onload diligently, using your best

 judgmentea"...the message read, "but do not deviate from

 normal routine. Revealing presence of chemical and

 biological weapons in Cuba not in the national

 interest. Risks of transfer have been carefully

 considered at the highest level. Should risk

 assessment change you will be informed."...The final sentence

 referred to the original message.

 "Five sentences"..."...Toad Tarkington asked when he

 had had his chance to read the message. "Only five

 sentences?"

 Reading naval messages was an art, of course.

 One had to consider the identity and personality of the

 sender, the receiver, the situation, any correspondence

 that had passed before.... The situation in Washington was

 the unknown here, Jake concluded. If the CNO had

 been at liberty to say more, he would have: Jake

 knew the CNO. The lack of guidance or

 illumination told Jake that the chief of naval

 operations wanted him to be ready for anything.

 "We'll have to do the best we can with what we

 have,"

 the admiral said now to Pascal and Tarkington. "I

 want a plan: we need someone watching at all

 times, a quick reaction force that can meet any initial

 incursion with force, a reserve force to throw into the fray

 to absolutely deny access, and flash messages

 ready to go informing Washington of what we have done."

 Toad and Gil Pascal nodded. A plan like this

 with the forces that the admiral had at his disposal would be

 simple to construct. No surprises there.

 "There is always the possibility that we may not be able

 to prevent hostiles from getting to the warheads, if they

 choose to try. We also need a plan addressing that

 contingency."

 "Surely this nightmare won't come to passea"...Gil

 Pascal said. "Your assessment of the risk differs

 remarkedly from that of the National Security

 Council."

 "I'm sure the powers that be think it quite unlikely

 anybody will try to prevent us from removing the

 weapons from Cuba, and I agree. On the other

 hand, they must know something they can't share with us. If the

 risk were zero, they wouldn't have sent us here with orders

 to monitor, whatever the hell that is. Gentlemen,

 I just want to be ready if indeed we win

 the lottery and our number comes up."

 Toad thoughtfully put the message from Washington

 back into its red folder. He pursed his lips, then

 said thoughtfully, "One thing is for suresomething is

 up."

 Alejo Vargas thought he had the finest office in

 Havana, indeed, in all of Cuba, and perhaps he

 did. He had the whole corner of the top floor, with

 lots of glass. Through the large windows one got a

 fine view across the rooftops of Morro Castle

 and the channel leading into Havana Harbor from the sea.

 The desk was mahogany, the chairs leather, the

 carpet Persian.

 William Henry Chance paused to take in the

 view, then nodded appreciatively. He turned,

 saw the old United Fruit Company safe in the

 corner, now standing open, and the display of gold and

 silver coins from the Spanish Main under glass.

 He paused again, ran his eye over the coins just long

 enough to compliment his host.

 "Very niceea"...Chance said, and took the chair indicated

 by Alejo Vargas. At a nearby desk sat

 Vargas's Chief of Staff, Colonel Pablo

 Santafla, who nodded at Chance when he looked his

 way, but said nothing.

 Colonel Santana was dark, with coal black

 eyes and black hair combed straight back; he had

 some slave and Indian somewhere in his bloodline. He

 slit the throats and pulled the trigger for Alejo

 Vargas whenever those chores needed to be done.

 Chance forced himself to ignore Santana and look at

 his host. "I appreciate you taking the time from your

 busy day to see me, Generalea"...the American said,

 and gave Vargas a frank, winning smile.

 Chance was tall and angular, with

 craggy

 good looks, and dressed in a light gray suit of a

 quality one could not

 obtain in Cuba for love or money. He appeared

 perfectly at ease, as if he owned the building and

 were calling on a tenant.

 No wonder the Russians lost the race to the

 Americans,

 Vargas thought ruefully. A true Latin male,

 he was acutely aware of his own physical and

 social shortcomings, his lack of grace and

 self-assurance, so he was quick to appreciate the

 desired qualities in others.

 "I understand you have been discussing a business

 arrangement for the future with officials of

 several departmentsea"...Vargas began.

 "That is correct, General. As you probably

 know, I represent a consortium of stockholders

 in several of the major American caret tobacco

 companies. My errand is discreet, not for public

 discussion."

 Vargas certainly did know. He had a complete

 dossier on William Henry Chance in the upper

 right-hand drawer of his desk, a dossier decorated

 with a half dozen photos, photocopies of all the

 pages of Chance's passport, and one of his entry in

 Who's Who.

 A senior partner in a major New York law

 firm, Chance had represented tobacco companies for

 twenty-five years. That Chance was the man in

 Havana talking to the Cuban government was a sure

 signal that major money was behind him.

 Indeed, Chance was in Vargas's office today because

 Fidel Castro had asked Vargas to see him.

 "Alejoea"...Fidel had said, "our future depends

 on Cuba getting a piece of the world economy. The

 Americans have kept us isolated too long. If

 we can make it profitable for the Americans to lift the

 embargo, sooner or later they will. The Yankees

 can smell money for miles."

 If William Henry Chance knew that Castro had

 personally asked Vargas to see him, he gave no

 sign.

 The less he understands about our government, the better,

 Vargas thought. He cleared his throat, and said, "I

 am sure you understand our concern, Senor Chance.

 Cuba is a poor nation, dependent on sugarcane

 as the mainstay of the

 economy, a crop that is, as usual, a glut on

 the world market. Your client's proposal, as I

 understand it, is to cultivate tobacco in Cuba

 instead of sugarcane."

 Chance gave the tiniest nod. A trace of a grin

 showed on his lips. He glanced at Santana, who

 was scrutinizing him with professional interest, the way

 a cat examines a mouse.

 "Your comprehension is perfect, General."

 "Through the years, senor, the price of tobacco on

 the world market has been even lower than that of

 sugar.", "This meeting shall be a great help to my

 clientsea"...Chance declared. "Here today I will show you the

 many benefits that will accrue in the future to the nation that

 keeps an open mind about tobacco. I am not

 talking about cigar leaf, you understand, which is a

 tiny percentage of the world market. I am talking about

 cigarette tobacco."

 "The price of which will collapse in America when the

 American government ends its subsidy

 to American tobacco farmers."

 "Indeedea"...sd William Henry Chance. "The

 United States government

 will

 soon cease supporting the price. But of greater

 interest to our clients, the government will increasingly

 regulate and tax the cigarette business.

 Plainly stated, the government is hostile to our

 industry. The current administration has stated that

 their eventual goal is to put the industry out of

 business."

 Chance moved his shoulders up and down a millimeter,

 settled deeper into his chair. "The American

 public is gradually giving up the cigarette

 habit. In a few years the only Americans

 smoking will be rebellious youth and addicted

 geriatrics."

 Chance leaned forward slightly in his chair and looked

 Alejo Vargas straight in the eye. "The

 future of the cigarette industry is to sell

 American brands to non-Americans.

 All over the world people in developing countries want

 the image American cigarettes present:

 prosperity, sex appeal, luxury, a rising

 status in the world. These images are no

 accident. They have been carefully created and

 nurtured at great expense by the American

 cigarette companies."

 Chance paused here to see if his host had anything

 to say. He didn't. Alejo Vargas sat

 silently with a blank, expressionless face. Not a

 single muscle revealed a clue about its owner's

 thoughts. Through the years Alejo had had a lot of

 experience listening to Castro's long-winded

 expositions.

 William Henry Chance summed up: "Minister,

 under the benevolent eye of a government that wants the

 industry to succeed, the prospects for profit are

 enormous. In the future the cigarette companies

 will grow the tobacco, process it, advertise, and

 sell the cigarettes. Cubans could own part of the

 companies, which would pay taxes and employ Cubans

 at a living wage. Here is a product that could be

 produced locally and sold worldwide. Cigarettes

 could be gold for Cuba in the twenty-first century."

 Now Alejo Vargas smiled. "I like you,

 Senor Chance. I like your style."

 "You can't fool meea"...Chance shot back. "You like my

 message,"

 "Cuba needs industries in addition to sugar."

 "The key, General, is a stable government that will

 protect the industry. Let me be frank: my

 clients have a great deal of money to invest, but they will

 not do so without the clear, unequivocal prospect

 of a stable government that will guarantee their right to do

 business and earn a fair profit."

 "Any promises or guarantees must come from the

 proper ministries of our government, witheathe consent of

 our president, Seflor Castroea"...Alejo

 Vargas said from the depths of his padded leather chair.

 "It is the future of Cuba I wish to discuss with

 you, General. I state unequivocally that my

 clients will not invest a dime in Cuba until such

 time as the American, government lifts the

 economic embargo. Candidly, the embargo will not be

 lifted as long as Castro remains in office."

 "Your candor deserves equal honesty on my

 partea"...General Vargas said. "Castro will remain in

 office until he chooses to leave of his own free

 will or until he dies. Do not be

 mistakenregardless of what drivel you hear from the

 exiles, Fidel Castro is universally

 admired, loved, revered as a great patriot

 by virtually everyone in Cuba. There is no

 opposition, no movement to remove him... disnone of

 that."

 "It is the distant future I wish to discuss with

 you."

 "Very distantea"...the general said. *

 "After Castro."

 "I do not have a crystal ball, Sefior Chance.

 I may not live so long."

 "Nor I, sir. But very likely the cigarette

 industry will still be in business and looking for new

 opportunities to grow."

 "Perhapsea"...Alejo Vargas admitted, and cocked his

 head slightly. He had seen transcripts of

 Chance's telephone calls to the. United States

 and a transcript of the conversations that had taken place

 in his room. The man hadn't said one word about

 Castro's health nor had anyone mentioned it to him.

 Still, it was a remarkable coincidence that he was here in

 Havana talking about post-Castro Cuba, and

 Castro was dying.

 Alejo Vargas didn't believe in

 coincidences. His instincts told him that William

 Henry Chance was not who he appeared to be. As he

 listened to Chance talk about cigarette marketing and

 demographics in the Third World, he removed the

 file on Chance from his desk drawer. Holding the

 file in his lap where Chance could not see it, he

 carefully reviewed the information it contained. The

 photographs he could not scrutinize closely but

 he was willing to accept them as genuine. Mr.

 William Henry Chance of New York City was

 probably a senior partner in a large law

 firmafter looking once more at the file Vargas

 would have been shocked if he weren't. All the right

 things were

 in the file. At least the file collectors were

 thorough, if nothing else, Vargas thought. Still,

 Chance's position and profession might be an

 elaborate cover.

 When he finished with the file Vargas returned it to the

 desk drawer just as Chance was summing up. The lawyer

 had charts and graphs. Vargas didn't even glance

 at them. He studied Chance's eyes, the way they

 focused, how they moved, how the muscles tensed and

 relaxed as he talked.

 It was possible, Vargas decided.

 William Henry Chance might be

 CIA.. plus

 Thirty minutes later when Chance was packing his

 charts and graphs to leave he pulled a small

 package from his briefcase and offered it to Vargas.

 "Here's something you might enjoy, General. Sort of

 an executive pacifier. These things are hot right

 now in the States so I picked up 'a few at the

 airport."

 Vargas unwrapped the tissue paper. He was

 looking at a small plastic frame from which three

 odd-shaped crystals dangled, suspended by strings.

 "These crystals are man-made and react

 to differential heatingea"...Chance explained. "You put this

 on the windowsill and the crystals dance around,

 refracting the sunlight. Very colorful."

 "Thank youea"...Vargas said mechanically, and sat the

 toy on his desk.

 When Chance was gone Colonel Santana called

 an aide, who examined the device visually, then

 took it away to be examined electronically.

 An hour later the aide returned with the toy in hand.

 "It is what it appears to be, sir, merely three

 lumps of oddly shaped crystal on strings. The

 crystals and frame are entirely solid;

 they contain nothing."

 "Americans! Executive pacifierff"...Vargas

 said contemptuously.

 Colonel Santana put the toy on a

 south-facing windowsill, watched the crystals dance in

 the sun for a moment, then forgot about it.

 William Henry Chance took his time walking to his

 hotel, the Nacional, a classic 1930's

 masterpiece near Havana harbor. He left his

 locked briefcase in his room, then went

 downstairs to the hotel restaurant, which charged

 truly stupendous amounts of American dollars for

 very modest food. In fact, the only currency the

 hotel staff would accept was American dollars.

 Colorful wooden panels and ceramic accents, and

 peacocks wandering around like refugees from an aviary,

 gave the place an over-the-top Caribbean look,

 Chance thought, sort of South Miami Beach racheted

 one notch too tight.

 Chance ordered a sea bass, blackened and grilled,

 black beans and rice, avocados, and a

 mojito,

 a delicious concoction of lime juice, sugar,

 mint leaves, and rumjust what the doctor

 ordered to prevent scurvy. He savored the fish,

 sipped a second

 mojito,

 contemplated the state of the universe and his fellow

 diners.

 The hotel staff, he knew, were employees of the

 Cuban secret police. When they weren't rushing

 here and there with daiquiris and fruit drinks they worked

 for Yargas, spied on the guests, listened to their

 conversations,, searched their luggage, filled out

 written reports.

 Chance knew the routine. He also knew that the

 Cubans would learn nothing by watching him because there was

 nothing to learn.

 As he drank his second

 mojito

 he carefully reviewed everything Vargas had said

 during his interview. He thought about the general's

 face, the total lack of expression when the

 demise of Fidel Castro was discussed.

 Of course Alejo Vargas knew that Castro was

 dying. He must know. What Vargas didn't know was

 that the CIA was equally aware of Castro's medical

 condition.

 When Chance finished dinner he went out on the

 street for a walk. First he had to work his way through the

 crowd of Cubans loafing around the entrance to the

 hotel. Knots of poor, bored Cubans with

 nothing to do and nowhere to

 go thronged the sidewalks in front of every nightclub

 and casino listening to the music that floated out through open

 doors and windows. Occasionally people danced or sang,

 but mostly they just passed the time chatting and watching the

 tourists, and beggars and prostitutes trying

 to extract dollars from them.

 Several blocks away Chance stopped to buy bread.

 The man who sold him the bread gave him a peso

 in change.

 One peso meant yes, two meant no.

 Chance smiled, nodded his thanks, and walked on.

 The crystal device was working. The vibrations of

 human voices in the room changed the motion of the

 crystals in predictable, minute amounts. When a

 powerful optical device was focused on the

 crystals, the refracted light was processed through a

 computer into human speech. The crystals were a

 totally passive listening device.

 So far so good, Chance reflected, and walked on

 aimlessly, for the exercise, drinking in the sights,

 sounds, and smells of Havana. She was like

 a painted old whore, he thought, trying to keep up

 appearances. The tourist attractions were gay and

 lively, temples of hedonism set in a gray

 communist wasteland.

 Outside the tourist area the city reeked of

 destitution and decay. The crumbling, rotting

 buildings were choked to the rafters with people, often four

 families to every apartment. The people fought daily

 battles to get enough food and basics to sustain

 life. Away from the clubs and hotels, the faces

 of the people were gloomy, drawn, without hope.

 The poison of communism had done its work here, as it

 had in every nation that had ever embraced it. After the

 revolution the government expropriated almost all

 private property, from the vast estates of the rich

 to the corner grocery. Hopeless, grinding poverty

 became nearly universal. Forty years after the

 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 money 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

 them carefully, filled them with water, and corked them.

 Diego hadn't mentioned water or food, but Ocho

 remembered his conversation with his brother, Hector, and

 thought bringing water would be a wise precaution.

 He also had two baked potatoes in the bag.

 Diego would laugh at himthey were not going to be at

 sea long enough to get really hungry, or so he said.

 Please, God, let Diego be right. Let us be

 in America when the sun rises tomorrow.

 There would be a man waiting in the Keys, waiting on

 a certain beach. Diego showed Ocho a map with the

 beach clearly marked in ink. "He was a close friend

 of my wife's brotherea"...Diego said. "A man who

 can be trusted."

 The boat was fast enough, Diego said, to be in

 American waters at dawn. They would make their

 approach to the beach as the sun rose, when

 obstructions to navigation were visible, when they could

 check landmarks and buoys.

 Diego was confident. Dora believed her father,

 looked at him with shining eyes when he talked of

 America, of how it would be to live in an American

 house, go to the huge stadiums and watch Ocho play

 baseball while everyone cheered... to have a

 television, plenty to eat, nice clothes,

 a

 carl

 Dios mio,

 America did sound like a paradise! To hear

 Diego tell it America was heaven, lacking only

 the angel choir ... and it was just a boat ride

 away across the Florida Straits.

 Of course, Diego said they would probably get

 seasick, would probably vomit. That was inevitable,

 to be expected, a price to be paid.

 And they could get caught by the Cubans or

 Americans, get sent back here. "We'll be no

 worse off than we are now if that

 happensea"...Diego argued. "We can always try again

 to get to America. God knows, we can't get any

 poorer."

 Dora with the shining eyes ... she looked so

 expectant.

 She was the first, the very first woman he had ever made

 love to. And she got pregnant after that one time!

 When she first told him, he had doubted her.

 Didn't want to believe. She became angry,

 threw a tantrum. Then he had believed.

 He thought about her now as he walked the dark

 streets, past people sitting in doorways,

 couples holding hands, past bars with music coming through

 the doorways. He had spent his whole life here and

 now he was leaving, an event of the first order of

 magnitude. Surely they could see the transformation

 in his face, in the way he walked.

 Several people called to him, "El Ochoff"...Several

 fans wanted to shake his hand, but no more than usual.

 This was the way they always acted as he walked bythis

 was the way people had treated him since he was fifteen.

 He left the people behind and walked past the closed fish

 markets and warehouses. His footsteps echoed off the

 buildings.

 The boat was in a slip, Diego said, behind a

 certain boatyard.

 He rounded the corner, saw people. Men, women, and children

 standing in little knots. Hmm, they were right near the

 slip.

 They were standing around the slip.

 He saw Diego standing on the dock, and Dora.

 People stepped out of the way to let him by.

 "All these peopleea"...he said to Diego, "Did you

 announce our departure at the ballpark? I thought

 we were going to sneak out of here."

 Diego had a sick look on his face. "They're

 going with usea"...he said.

 "What?"

 "The captain brought his relatives, my brother

 heard we were leaving, talked to some of his friends...."

 Ocho stared at the boat. The boat's name on the

 stern

 was written in black paint, which was chipping and peeling

 off.

 Angel del Mar,

 Angel of the Sea. The boat was maybe forty feet

 long, with a little pilothouse. Fishing nets still hung

 from the aft mast. The crowdhe estimated there were

 close to fifty people standing here.

 "How many people, Diego? How many?"

 "Over eighty."

 "On that boat? In the Gulf Stream?

 Estd locot

 Diego was beside himself. "This is our chance, Ocho.

 We can make it. God is with us."

 "God? If the boat swamps, will He keep us from

 drowning?"

 "Ocho, listen to me. My friends are waiting in

 Florida. This is our chance to make it to America,

 to be something, to live decent.... This is

 our

 chance."

 People were staring at him, listening to Diego.

 Ocho looked into the faces locking at him. He

 tore his eyes away, finally, looked back at

 Diego, who had his hand on Ocho's arm.

 "No. I am

 not

 going."...He pulled his arm from Diego's grasp.

 "Go with one less, you will all have a little better

 chance."

 "You

 have

 to goea"...Diego pleaded, and grabbed his arm.

 "Ochoea"...Dora wailed.

 "You have to goea"...Diego snarled. "You got her

 pregnant! Be a man!"

 CHAPTER FIVE

 Eighty-four people were packed aboard

 Angel del Mar

 as she headed for the mouth of the small bay under a

 velvet black sky strewn with stars. A sliver of

 moon cast just enough light to see the sand on the bars at

 the entrance of the bay.

 The boat rode low in the water and seemed to react

 sluggishly to the small swells that swept down the

 channel.

 "This is insaneea"...Ocho said to Diego Coca, who

 was leaning against the wall of the small wheelhouse.

 "We'll make it. We'll reach the rendezvous in

 the Florida Keys an hour or two before dawn.

 Vamos con Dios."

 "God had better be with usea"...Ocho muttered, and

 reached for Dora. The baby didn't show yet. She

 was of medium height, with a trim, athletic frame.

 How well he knew her body.

 As far as he knew, he was the only one on the

 boat who had brought water or food. Oh, the other

 passengers had things, all right, sacks and boxes of

 things too precious to leave behind: clothes,

 pictures, silver, Bibles, rosaries,

 crucifixes that had decorated the walls of their

 homes and their parents" and grandparents' homes.

 Boxes and sacks were stacked around each person, who

 sat on the deck or on his pile. Men, women,

 children, some merely babies in arms... It appeared

 to Ocho as if the Saturday night crowd from an

 entire section of ballpark bleachers had been

 miraculously transported to the deck of this small

 boat.

 The breeze smelled of the sea, clean, tangy,

 crisp. He

 took a deep breath, wondered if this were his last

 night of life.

 He pulled Dora closer to him, felt the warmth and

 promise of her body.

 Well, this boatload of people would make it

 to Florida or they wouldn't, as God willed it.

 He had never thought much about religion, merely

 accepted it as part of life, but through the years he had

 learned about God's will. He was not one of those

 athletes who crossed himself every time he went to the

 plate or prepared to make a crucial pitch,

 vainly asking God for assistance in trivial

 matters, but he knew to a certainty that most of the

 major events of life be you ballplayer,

 manager, father, husband, cane worker, whateverare beyond

 your control. Events take their own course and

 humans are swept along with them. Call it

 God's will or chance or fate or what have you, all

 a man could do was throw the ball as well as he could,

 with all the guile and skill he could muster. What

 happened ajfter the ball left your fingers was beyond your

 control. In God's hands, or so they said. If

 God cared.

 For the first time in his life Ocho wondered if

 God cared.

 He was still thinking along these lines when the boat

 buried its bow in the first big swell at the harbor

 entrance. Spray came flying back clear to the

 wheelhouse. People shrieked, some laughed, all tried

 to find some bit of shelter.

 People were moving, holding up clothing or pieces of

 cardboard when the next cloud of spray came flying

 back.

 The boat rose somewhat as she met each swell, but

 she was too heavily loaded.

 "We're not even out of the harborea"...muttered the man

 beside Ocho. His voice sounded infinitely weary.

 Dora hugged Ocho, clung to him as she stared into the

 night.

 She barely came to his armpit. He braced himself

 against the wall of the wheelhouse, held her close.

 The boat labored into the swells, flinging heavy

 sheets of spray back over the people huddled on the

 deck.

 The door to the wheelhouse opened. A bare head

 came out, shouted at Diego Coca: "The boat

 is overloaded, man! It is too dangerous to go

 on. We must turn back."

 Diego pulled a pistol from his pocket and

 placed the muzzle against the man's forehead. He

 pushed the man back through the door, followed him into the

 tiny shack and pulled the door shut behind him.

 The man next to Ocho said, "We may make it...

 if the sea gets no rougher. I was a fisherman

 once, I know of these things."

 The man was in his late sixties perhaps, with a deeply

 lined face and hair bleached by the sun. Ocho had

 studied his face in the twilight, before the light

 completely disappeared. Now the fisherman was merely

 a shape in the darkness, a remembered face.

 "Your father is crazyea"...Ocho told Dora, speaking

 in her ear over the noise of the wind and sea. She said

 nothing, mexgly held him tighter.

 R was then he realized she was as frightened as he.

 Angel del Mar

 smashed its way northward under a clear, starry

 sky. The wind seemed steady from the west at twelve

 or fifteen knots. Already drenched by spray, with no

 place to shelter themselves, the people on deck huddled where

 they were. From his position near the wheelhouse Ocho

 could just see the people between the showers of spray, dark

 shapes crowding the deck in the faint moonlight, for

 there were no other lights so that the boat might go

 unnoticed by Cuban naval patrols.

 "When we get to the Gulf Streamea"...the fisherman beside

 Ocho shouted' in his ear above the noise of the wind and

 laboring diesel engine, "... swells ... open

 the seams ... founder in this sea."

 In addition to heaving and pitching, the boat was also

 rolling heavily since there was so much weight on

 deck. The roll to starboard seemed most pronounced

 when the boat crested a swell, when it was naked to the

 wind.

 Ocho Sedano buried his face in Dora's hair

 and held her

 tightly as the boat plunged and reared, turned his

 body to shield her somewhat from the clouds of spray that

 swept over them.

 He could hear people retching; the vomit smell was

 swept away on the wind and he caught none of it.

 On the boat went into the darkness, bucking and writhing

 as it fought the sea.

 Late in the evening William Henry Chance met his

 associate at the mahogany bar hi El

 Floridita, one of the flashiest old nightclubs

 in Old Havana. This monstrosity was the dazzling

 heart of prerevolutionary Havana hi the bad

 old days; black-and-white photos of Ernest

 Hemingway, Gary Grant, and Ava

 Gardner still adorned the walls. The place was full

 of Americans who had traveled here in defiance of

 their government's ban on travel to Cuba. As

 bands belted out salsa and rhumba, the Americans

 drank, ate, and scrutinized voluptuous

 prostitutes clad in tight dresses and high

 heels.

 Chance's associate was Tommy Carmellini, a

 Stanford law school graduate in his late

 twenties. The baggy sportscoat and pleated

 trousers did nothing to show off Carmellini's wide

 shoulders and washboard stomach. Still, a thoughtful

 observer would conclude he was remarkably fit for a

 man who spent twelve hours a day at a desk.

 "Looks like the Cubans have come full

 circleea"...Chance said when Carmellini joined him at

 the bar. He had to speak up to be heard above the

 music coming through the open windows.

 "Goes around and comes aroundea"...Tommy Carmellini

 agreed. "I wonder just how many different social

 diseases are circulating in this building tonight."

 When they were outside on the sidewalk strolling

 along, William Henry Chance pulled a cigar from

 the pocket of his sports jacket, which was folded

 over his left arm. He bit off the end of the

 thing, then cupped his hands against the breeze and lit it

 with a paper match. The wind blew out

 the first two matches, but he got the cigar going with the

 third one. After a couple purr's, he sighed.

 "Smells deliciousea"...Carmellini said.

 "Cuban cigars are the real deal. Gonna be the

 new "in" thing. You should try one."

 "Naw. I just might like cigars. I've made it this

 far without smoking, I'm going to try to go all the

 way."

 They paused outside a nightclub and listened to the

 music pouring out. "That's a good band."

 "If you close your eyes, this sorta feels like

 Miami Beach."

 "Miami del Sud."

 They walked on. "So what do you hear?"

 "The pacifiers are working. All three of them. This

 afternoon Vargas talked to his subordinates about this and

 that, the minister of finance had phone sex with a girlfriend,

 and Castro's top aide talked to the doctors for

 an hour."

 "How is the old goat doing?"

 "Not good, the man said. The doctors talked about how

 much narcotics to administer to ensure he didn't

 suffer."

 "Any guesses when?"

 "No."

 "The Cuban exile, El Gato, where does he

 fit in?"

 "Don't know yet."

 "He's in the casino now with three Russian

 gangsters, people he knows apparently, playing for high

 stakes."

 "El Gato is supposed to be an influential and

 powerful enemy of the Castro regimeea"...Chance

 muttered. "Sure does make you wonder."

 "Yeahea"...sd Carmellini. He and Chance both knew

 that the FBI had an agent and three informers in El

 Gate's chemical supply business looking for

 evidence that it was the source of supply for some of the

 makings of Fidel Castro's biological warfare

 program. So far, nothing. Then El Gato

 unexpectedly comswanned off to Havana. Chance and

 Carmellini were coming anyway, but now they had a new

 item added to their agenda.

 And Castro was dying.

 "I'd like to know what the Cat is going to tell all

 his exile friends when he gets back

 to Floridaea"...Tommy Carmellini said.

 "Maybe if he winds up in the right offices

 we'll find out, eh?"

 That reference to the executive pacifiers made

 Chance grin. He puffed the cigar a few times while

 holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger.

 "You don't really know much about smoking cigars, do

 you?"

 "Is it that obvious?"

 "Yes, sir."

 Chance put the cigar between his teeth at a jaunty

 angle and puffed fearlessly three or four times.

 Then he took the thing from his mouth and held it so he

 could see it. "Wish I could get the hang of itea"...he

 said. "Cuba seemed like a good place to learn about

 cigars."

 He tossed the stogie into a gutter on the street.

 "Makes me a little light-headed."...Chance grinned

 sheepishly and wiped a sheen of perspiration from his

 brow.

 He stood listening to the sounds of the crowd and the

 snatches of music floating from the bars and casinos,

 thinking about biological weapons.

 Angel del Mar

 was only a half hour past the mouth of the harbor when

 the fisherman beside Ocho Sedano pulled at

 his arm to attract his attention. Then he shouted,

 "We will reach the Gulf Stream soon. The swells

 will be larger. We are too deeply loaded- We

 must get rid of what weight we can."

 The boat was corkscrewing viciously. Ocho

 nodded, passed Dora to the fisherman, pulled open

 the wheelhouse door and carefully stepped inside.

 The captain worked the wheel with an eye on the

 compass. The faint glow from the binnacle and the engine

 RPM indicator were the only lightsthey cast a

 faint glow on the captain's face and that of Diego

 Coca, who was wedged

 in beside him, the gun still in his hand. Both men were facing

 forward, looking through the window at the sheets of spray

 being flung up when the bow smacked into a swell with

 an audible thud. The shock of those collisions could be

 felt through the deck and walls of the wheelhouse.

 "You are suicidalea"...the captain shouted at

 Diego. "The sea will get worse when we reach the

 Gulf Stream. We are only a mile or two from

 it!"

 Diego backed up, braced himself against the aft

 wall of the tiny compartment, pointed the pistol in the

 center of the captain's back. He held up his hand

 to hold off Ocho.

 "You took the moneyea"...Diego said accusingly to the

 captain.

 "Don't be a fool, man."

 "America!

 Or I shoot you, as God is my witness."

 "You want to dro'wn out here, in this watery hell?"

 "You took the moneyff"...Diego shouted.

 Ocho stepped forward and Diego pointed the pistol

 at him. "Backea"...he said. "Get back. I

 don't want to shoot you, but I will."

 Ocho Sedano leaned disforward. "I think they are

 right, what they say. You

 are

 crazy. You will kill every man and woman on this

 boat. Even the babies."

 "The boat is overloadedea"...the captain said without

 looking at Ocho. "We have to get some weight off.

 Throw the fishing gear over, the baggage, everything."

 Ocho pulled the door open and stepped out onto the

 pitching deck. He took Dora from the fisherman,

 pushed her into the wheelhouse, and pulled the door

 until it latched.

 "We must get rid of some weight. Everything goes

 overboard but the people."

 The fisherman nodded, took the bags near

 his feet and threw them into the white foam being thrown out

 by the bow. Then he grabbed Ocho's bag and tossed it

 disbbf the young man could stop him.

 Madre mia!

 Walking on that bucking deck was difficult. Ocho

 made

 his way forward, picking up every sack and box in reach

 and throwing it into the sea. Some people protested, grabbed

 their belongings and tried to prevent their loss, but he was

 too strong. He tore the bags from the women's

 grasp and heaved heavy boxes as if they were empty.

 Up the deck he went toward the bow, drenched every time

 the bow went in, throwing everything he could get his hands

 on into the foam created by the bow's passage.

 Other people were throwing things too. Soon the deck

 contained only the people, who huddled in small groups,

 their backs to the spray. The nets- hanging on the

 mast were lowered to the deck, men put into the sea and cut

 loose.

 Near the bow the motion was vicious. The salt sea

 spray slamming back almost took him off his feet.

 He caught himself on a line that stabilized the mast,

 then worked his way aft holding on to the rail.

 He thought the boat was riding easier, but

 maybe it was only his imagination.

 Then they got into the Gulf Stream. The swells

 grew progressively larger, the motion of the boat

 even more vicious.

 How much of this could the boat take?

 People cried out, praying aloud, lifted their hands

 to heaven. He could hear the women wailing over the

 rumbling of the engine, the pounding of the sea.

 He tried the door to the wheelhouse.

 Locked!

 He rattled the knob, twisted it fiercely,

 pulled with all his strength.

 "Open up, Diego."

 He pounded futilely on the door.

 Six people were huddled in the lee of the tiny wheelhouse,

 blocking the door. One of them was Dora. He

 leaned over her, pounded futilely on the door with his

 fist.

 He looked down at Dora, who had her head

 down.

 Frustrated, drained, sick of himself and Diego and

 Dora,

 he found a spot against the aft wall of the wheelhouse

 and buried his head in his arms to keep the spray from his

 face.

 He was drifting, thinking of his mother, reviewing scenes

 from his childhood when Mercedes shook him awake.

 Still under the influence of the painkilling drugs, Fidel

 Castro opened his eyes to slits and blinked

 mightily against the dim light.

 "Maximo is here, Fidel, as you asked."

 He tried to chase away the past, to come back to the

 present. His mouth was dry, his tongue like cotton.

 "Time?"

 "Almost midnight."

 He nodded, looked around the room at the walls, the

 ceiling, the dark shapes of people and furniture. He

 couldn't see faces.

 "A light."

 She reached for the switch.

 When his eyes adjusted, he saw Maximo standing in

 the shadows. He motioned with a finger. Yes, it was

 Maximo: now he could see his features.

 "Mi amigo."

 "Senor Presidente,"

 Maximo said.

 "Closer, in the light."

 Maximo Sedano knelt near the bed.

 "I don't have much time left to meea"...Castro

 explained. His mouth was so numb that he was

 having trouble enunciating his words.

 "I want the money brought back."

 "To Cuba?"

 "Yes. All of it."

 "You will have to sign and put your thumbprints on the

 transfer cards."

 "The money was never mine, you understand."

 "I had faith in you,

 Senor Presidente.

 We all had faith."

 "Faith..."

 "I will go to my office now, then return."

 "Mercedes will admit you."

 Ocho Sedano was soaked to the skin, covered with

 vomit from the woman beside him, when he heard the cry.

 Holding onto the wheelhouse wall with one hand and the

 net boom mast with the other, he levered himself erect,

 braced himself against the motion of the boat.

 Waves were washing over the bow, which seemed to be lower

 in the water. The bow wasn't rising to the sea the way

 it did when he sat down an hour ago, or maybe

 the waves were just higher.

 Someone was against the rail, pointing aft.

 "Man overboard!"

 "Madre mia,

 have mercy!"

 Another swell came aboard and two people braced

 against the lee rail were swept into, the sea as the

 boat rolled.

 Ocho turned to the wheelhouse, pulled people from against the

 door and savagely twisted the latch handle. He

 pounded on the door with his left fist.

 "Let me in, Diego! So help me, I will

 kill you if you don't turn the boat around."

 The bow began turning to put the wind and swells more

 astern.

 A muffled report came from inside the wheelhouse.

 Ocho braced himself, then rammed his left fist against

 the upper panel of the door. The wood splintered, his

 fist went through almost to hisstelbow. He reached down,

 un less-than - latched the door, jerked it open.

 The captair caret lay on the floor. Diego

 Coca stood braced against the back wall, his hands

 discovering his face. The pistol was nowhere in sight.

 The wheel snapped back and forth as the seas slammed

 at the rudder.

 Ocho bent down to check the captain.

 He had a wet place in the middle of his back,

 right between his shoulder blades. No pulse.

 At least the boat seemed more stable with the, swells behind

 it.

 STEPHEN

 COONTS

 For how long? How long would the engine keep running?

 The fisherman opened the door, saw Ocho at the

 wheel, the dark shape lying on die floor.

 "Is he dead"..."...the man shouted.

 "Yes."

 "We must put out a sea anchor in case the engine

 stops. If the boat turns broadside to the sea,

 it will be swamped."

 "Can you do it?"

 "I will get men to helpea"...the fisherman said, and

 closed what was left of the door.

 A great lassitude swept over Ocho Sedano.

 His sin with the girl had brought all of these people here

 to die, had brought them to this foundering boat in a rough,

 windswept night sea with a million cold stars

 looking down without pity.

 Then he realized that the forward deck was empty.

 Empty!

 The people were gone. Into the sea... that must be it! They were

 swept overboard.

 "Ocho."

 Diego put his hand on the young man's shoulder,

 gripped hard.

 "I didn't mean

 to

 shoot him. As God is my witness, I did not

 mean for this to happen. It was an accident."

 Ocho swept the hand away.

 He pointed through the glass"...at the forward deck.

 "They are gone! Look.

 The people are gone!"

 "I did not mean for this to happenea"...Diego repeated

 mechanically.

 "What"..."...Ocho demanded. "What disdid you not intend?

 For the captain to die? For your daughter to drown at

 sea? For all of those people on that deck to die? What

 did you not intend, Diego?"

 Oh, my God, that this should happen!

 "Answer

 me!"

 he roared at Diego Coca, who refused to look

 forward through the wheelhouse windshield.

 "Look, you bastardea"...Ocho ordered through clenched

 teeth, and grabbed the smaller man by the

 neck. He rammed his head forward against the glass.

 "See what your greed and stupidity have cost."

 Then he threw Diego Coca to the floor.

 The impact of the disaster bowed Ocho's head, bent his

 back, emptied his heart. Diego's guilt did

 not lessen his, and oh, he knew that well. He,

 Ocho Sedano, was

 guilty.

 His lust had set this chain of events in motion. He

 felt as if he were trying to support the weight of the

 earth.

 Maximo Sedano's office in the finance ministry

 reflected his personal taste. The furniture was

 simple, deceptively so. The woods were

 hardwoods from the Amazon rain forest, crafted in

 Brazil by masters. Little souvenirs from his travels

 across Europe and Latin America sat on the

 desk and credenza and hung on the walls, small

 things of little value because expensive trinkets would be

 impolitic.

 He turned on the light, then walked to the huge

 floor safe, which he unlocked attd opened. He

 found the drawer he wanted, removed a stiff

 document envelope, took it to his desk and

 adjusted the light.

 With the contents of the envelope spread out on the highly

 polished mahogany, Maximo Sedano paused and

 looked around the room with unseeing eyes. He

 blinked several times, then leaned back in his chair and

 stretched.

 There were four bank accounts in Switzerland, all

 controlled by Fidel Castro. The last time

 Maximo computed the interest, the amount in the accounts

 totaled $53 million. Castro had been very

 specific when the accounts were opened years ago; the

 accounts were to be denominated in United States

 dollars. This choice had worked out extraordinarily

 well through the years as the currencies of every other

 major trading nation underwent major inflation or

 devaluation. The United States dollar was the

 modern-day equivalent of gold, although it would

 certainly be poor pol-

 COONTS

 itics for any member of the Castro regime to say

 so publicly.

  Fifty-three million dollars.

 Quite a sum.

 Enough to live extraordinarily well for a millennium

 or two.

 Fidel kept that little nest egg in

 Switzerland just in case things went wrong here in this

 communist paradise and he had to skedaddle. No

 sense living on government charity in some other

 squalid communist paradise, like Poland or

 Russia or the Ukraine, when a little prior

 planning could solve the whole problem. So Fidel

 rat-holed a fortune where only he could get at it

 and slept soundly at night.

 Now he wanted the money back in Cuba.

 Not that the money ever really belonged to the Cuban

 government. The money came from drug dealers, fees

 for using Cuban harbors for sanctuary, fees for

 being able to send shipments directly to Cuba,

 stockpile the drugs, then ship them on when the time was

 right.

 The money was really just Castro's personal share of the

 drug fees. An even larger chunk of the profits

 had gone to army, navy and law enforcement personnel,

 all of them, every man in the country who wore a

 uniform had been paid; another chunk went

 to Castro's lieutenants and political allies.

 Maximo had received almost a half million

 dollars himself. All in all, the deals with the drug

 syndicates had been good public policythe drug

 business was highly profitable, giving

 Castro money to buy loyalty and so remain in

 power, and the business corrupted America, which he

 hated. Ah, yes, the money came from the United

 States despite the best efforts of the American

 government to prevent it. Fidel had savored that

 irony too.

 Fifty-three million.

 Maximo pursed his. lips as he thought about the

 life of luxury and privilege that a fortune that

 size would buy. The money could be invested, some

 hotels, bank stock, invested to earn a nice

 income without touching the principal.

 He could stay in the George V in Paris, ski

 in St. Moritz, shop in London and Rome and

 yacht all over the Mediterranean.

 God, it was tempting!

 Fifty-three million.

 All he had to do was get Castro's thumbprint on

 the transfer order. Without that thumbprint, the banks

 would not move a solitary dollar.

 Really, those Swiss banks ... Maximo had

 urged Castro to transfer the money to Spanish and

 Cuban banks for months, ever since the dictator

 was diagnosed with cancer. If he died with the

 money still in Switzerland, prying money out of those

 banks was going to be like peeling fresh paint from a

 wall with fingernails. And the drug dealers thought their

 racket was profitable!

 But why be a piker? Why settle for $53

 million when there was a lot more, somewhere?

 From his pocket he removed a coin, a gold

 five-peso coin dated 1915. There was a

 portrait of Josd Marti on one side and the

 crest of Cuba on the other.

 Gold circulated in Cuba until the

 revolution, until Fidel and the communists declared it

 was no longer legal tender and called it in, allowing

 the peso to float on the world market.

 Maximo rubbed the gold coin with his fingers. By his

 calculations, based upon Ministry of Finance

 records, almost 1.2 million ounces of gold were

 surrendered to the government in return for paper

 money.

 One million, two hundred thousand ounces ...

 about thirty-seven

 tons

 of gold. On the world market, that thirtyseven tons

 of gold should be worth about $360 million.

 A man who could get his hands on that hoard

 would be on easy street for the rest of his life.

 Yes, indeed.

 The only problem was finding it. It wasn't in the

 Finance Ministry vaults, it wasn't in the

 vaults of the Bank of Cuba, on account at

 banks in Switzerland or London or New

 York or Mexico City ... it was gone!

 Thirty-seven tons of gold, vanished into thin

 air.

 If a man could lay hands on that gold... well,

 Alejo Vargas and Hector Sedano could fight

 over the presidency of Cuba, and may the better

 man win. Maximo would take the gold. If he

 could find it.

 He had a few ideas about where it might be. In

 fact, he had been quietly researching the problem

 since he took over the Finance Ministry. Eight

 years of ransacking files, talking to old

 employees, looking at clues, thinking about the

 problemthe gold had to be in Cuba, in Havana.

 Thirtyseven tons of gold.

 A-life of ease and luxury in the spas of

 Europe, mingling with the rich and famous, surrounded

 by beautiful women and the best of everything ...

 But first the $53 million.

 He would type the account numbers on the transfer

 orders and the accounts the money was to be transferred

 to. He would use the secretary's typewriter.

 He had the account numbers written in the notebook

 he removed from the safe. He flipped through the

 notebook now, found the page, stared at the

 numbers.

 How closely would Fidel check the order?

 The man is sick, drugged, dying. He is barely

 conscious. Unless he has the numbers of the accounts in

 the Bank of Cuba by his bedside, he 'II be

 none the wiser.

 But what if he does? What if he has the

 numbers written down in a book or diary and hands

 the transfer order to Mercedes to check? What then?

 Fifty-three million. More money than God

 has.

 He remembered the old days when he was young, when

 Castro walked the earth like Jesus Christ with a

 Cuban accent. Ah, the fire of the revolution, how

 the true believers were going to change the world!

 Instead, time changed them, America bled them, and

 life defeated them.

 Maximo had been loyal to Fidel and the

 revolution. No one could ever say he was

 not. He had been with Fidel

 since he was twenty-four years old, just back from the

 university in Spain. He had endured the good times

 and the bad, never uttered a single word of criticism.

 He had faith in Fidel, proclaimed it

 publicly and demanded it of others.

 Now Castro was dying. In just a few days he would be

 beyond regrets.

 Fifty-three million.

 The pounding the overloaded boat had taken buckjng

 the heavy Gulf Stream swells opened the seams

 somewhat, and now the fisherman was pumping out the water

 with the bilge pump, which received its power from the

 enginedriven generator.

 "As long as we can keep the engine running, as long

 as the seams don't open any more than they are,

 we'll be all right."

 "How much fuel do we have on board?"

 The fisherman went to check.

 Ocho was at the helm, steering almost due east. With the

 wind and sea behind her, the

 Angel del Mar

 rode better. Now the motion was a rocking as the

 swells swept under the stern. Very little roll from"

 side to side.

 Of the eighty-four people who had been aboard when the

 boat left the harbor in Cuba, twenty-six

 remained alive. The captain's body lay against the

 wheelhouse wall.

 Ocho found Diego's pistol and put it in his

 belt. He physically carried Diego from the

 wheelhouse and tossed him on the deck.

 Fifty-seven living human beings, men, women, and

 babies, had gone into the sea. There was no way in the

 world to go back to try to rescue them. Even if he

 and the fisherman could find those people in the water, in the

 darkness, in this sea, the pounding of heading back into the

 swells would probably cause the boat to take on

 more water, endangering the lives of those who remained

 aboard.

 No, the people swept overboard were lost to their fate,

 whatever that might be.

 The living twenty-six would soon join them, Ocho

 told himself. The boat was heading east, away from

 Florida.

  Perhaps if the sea calmed somewhat, they should bring the

 boat to a more southerly heading and return to Cuba.

 That, he decided, was their only chance.

 Cuba. They would have to return.

 Why wait? Every sea mile increased the

 likelihood of the engine quitting or the boat

 sinking.

 He turned the helm a bit, worked the boat's bow

 to a more southerly heading. The roll became, more

 pronounced. The wind came more over the right stern

 quarter.

 How long until dawn? An hour or two?

  The door to the wheelhouse opened. Diego was standing

 there, the whites of his eyes glistening in the dim

 light. "Turn back toward Florida! No one

 wants to go back to Cuba."

 "It's the only way. We'll all die trying

 to make it to Florida in this sea."

  "I was dead in Cuba all those yearsea"...Diego

 Coca shouted. "I refuse to go go back! I

 refuse."

  Ocho hit him in the mouth. One mighty jab with his

 left hand as he twisted his body, so all his weight

 was behind the punch. Diego went down backward, hit

 his head on the deck coaming, and lay still.

  Dora wailed, crawled toward her unconscious

 father.

 Ocho closed the door to the wheelhouse, brought the

 boat back to its southeast heading.

 Soon the door opened again and the fisherman

 stepped inside. "We have fuel for another ten or

 twelve hours. No more than that."

 "We'll be back hi Cuba then."

 caret That's our only chance."

 The stars in the east were fading when the engine quit.

 After trying for a minute to start the engine, the fisherman

 dashed below.

 Ocho abandoned the helm. The boat rolled

 sickeningly in the swells.

 At least the swells were smaller than they were earlier

 in the night, m the middle of the Gulf Stream.

 The fisherman came up on deck after fifteen

 minutes, his clothes soaked in diesel fuel.

 "It's no useea"...he said. "The engine has had it."

 "What about the water in the bilges? Is it still coming

 in?"

 "We'll "have to take turns on the hand pump."

 "What are we going to do about the engine"..."...Ocho asked.

 The fisherman didn't reply, merely stood

 looking at the swells as the sky grew light in the

 east.

 The van drove up to the massive,

 250-feet-tall extra-highvoltage tower beside the

 drainage canal on the southern outskirts

 of Havana and backed up toward it. The base of the

 tower was surrounded by a ten-foot-high-chain link fence

 with barbed wire on top. The access door in the

 fence was, of course, padlocked.

 The driver of the van and his passenger were both wearing

 one-piece overalls. They stretched, looked at the

 wires far above, and scratched their heads while they

 surveyed the ramshackle four-story apartment

 buildings that backed up to the canal. One of the men

 extracted a pack of cigarettes from his overalls

 and lit one. The nearest apartments were at least sixty

 meters away, although for safety reasons the distance

 should have been much more. Each of the extra-high-voltage

 (Ehv) lines overhead carried 500,000

 volts.

 The driver of the van was Enrique Poveda. His

 passenger was Arquimidez Cabrera. Both men were

 citizens of the United States, sons of Cuban

 exiles, and bitter enemies of the Castro regime.

 Poveda had parked the van so that the rear doors, when

 open, almost touched the gate in the chain-link fence.

 Now he reached into the van, seized a set of bolt

 cutters, and applied the jaws to the padlock on the

 gate. One tremendous squeeze and the bar of the

 padlock snapped.

 Cabrera threw the remnants of the padlock into the

 back of the van. He opened the gate in the fence,

 set a new, open padlock on the hasp, and stood

 looking up at the tower.

 The best way to cut the power lines the tower carried

 would be to climb the tower and set shaped charges around the

 insulators. Unfortunately, the lines carried so

 much juice that the hot zones around the wires were

 eleven feet in diameter, more in humid weather.

 No, the only practical way to cut the lines was

 to drop the towers, which would not be difficult. A shaped

 charge on each leg should do the job nicely.

 Cabrera looked at the angle of the wires leading

 into the tower, and the angle away. Yes, once the

 legs were severed, the weight and tension of the line should

 pull the tower down to the side away from the canal,

 into this open area, where the lines would either short out on the

 ground or break from the strain of carrying their own

 weight.

 Timing the explosions would be a problem. This close

 to all that energy, a radio-controlled electrical

 detonator was out of the question. Chemical timers would be

 best, ones that ignited the detonators after a

 preset time, although chemical timers were not as

 precise as mechanical ones.

 All that was for a later day, however. The decision on

 when the tower must come down had yet to be made, so today

 Cabrera and Poveda would merely set the charges.

 They would return later to set the timers and

 detonators.

 Poveda finished his cigarette and strapped on his

 tool belt. This was the fourth tower today. Only this

 one and one more to go.

 "You ready"..."...he asked Cabrera.

 "Let's do it."

 Ocho Sedano lived with his older brother Julio,

 Julio's wife, and their two children in a tiny apartment

 atop a garage just a few hundred yards from Dona

 Maria's house. Julio worked in the garage

 repairing American cars. The cars were antiques

 from the 1950's and there were no spare parts, so Julio

 made parts or cannibalized them from the carcasses

 behind the garage, cars too far gone for any mechanic

 to save. When he wasn't playing baseball,

 Ocho helped.

 Hector found his brother Julio working in the shop

 by the light of several naked bulbs. "Where is

 Ocho?"

 "Gone."

 "Gone where?"

 Julio was replacing the valves of an ancient

 straight eight under the hood of an Oldsmobile.

 The light was terrible, but he was working by feel so it

 didn't really matter. He straightened now,

 scowled at his older brother.

 "He has gone to try his luck in America."

 "You didn't try to stop him?"

 Julio looked about at the dimly lit shop, the

 dirt floor, the shabby old cars. He wiped his

 hands on a dirty rag that hung from his belt.

 "No, I didn't."

 "What if he drowns out there in the Gulf Stream?"

 "I have prayed for him."

 "That's it? Your little brother? A prayer?"

 "What do you think I should have done, Hector?

 Tell the boy that he was living smack in the middle

 of a communist paradise, that he should be happy here,

 happy with his labor and his crust? Bah! He

 wants something more from life, something for himself, for his

 children."

 "If he dies"

 "Look around you, Hector. Look at this

 squalid, filthy hovel. Look at the way we

 live! Most of Cuba lives this way,

 except for a precious few like dear Maximo, who

 eats the bread that other men earn. You saw him

 yesterday at Mima'snothing's too good for our

 dedicated revolutionary, Maximo Sedano,

 Fidel's right-hand ass-wipe man,"

 Julio snorted scornfully, then leaned back under

 the hood of the Olds. "I told Ocho to go with

 God. I pfayed for him."

 "What if he dies out there?"

 "Everybody has to dieyou, me, Fidel, Ocho,

 all of usthat's just the way it is. They ought to teach

 you that in church. At least if Ocho dies he

 won't have to listen to any more of Fidel's bullshit.

 He won't have to listen to

 yours, either. God knows, bullshit is the only thing

 on this island wecomh a lot of."

 "Have you told

 Mima

 that he left?"

 "I was going to keep my mouth shut until I had

 something to tell her."...Julio turned his head to look

 at Hector around the edge of the car's hood. "Ocho

 is a grown man. He has taken his life in his

 own two hands, which is his right. He'll

 live or die. He'll get to America or he

 won't."

 "He should have waited. I asked him to wait."

 "For what"..."...Julio demanded.

 Hector turned to leave the garage.

 "What are we waiting for, Hector? The second

 coming?"

 Julio came to the door and called after Hector as

 he walked away down the street: "How long do I

 have to wait to feed my sons? Tell me! I have

 waited all my life. I am sick and tired of

 waiting. I want to know

 nowhow much longer?"

 Hector turned in the road and walked back toward

 Julio. "Enough!

 Enough!"

 he roared, his voice carrying. "You squat here in this

 hovel waiting for life to get better, waiting for

 someone else to make it better! You have no courage

 you are not a man! If the future depends on

 rabbits like you Cuba will always be a sewer!"

 Then Hector turned and stalked away, his head

 down, his shoulders bent forward, as if he were walking

 into a great wind.

 The Officers' Club at Guantanamo

 Bay Naval Station was sited on a small hill

 overlooking the harbor. From the patio Toad

 Tarkington and Rita Moravia could see the carrier

 swinging on her anchor near the mouth of the bay.

 These days the O Club was usually sparsely

 populated. The base was now a military

 backwater, no longer a vital part of the U.s.

 military establishment. For the last few years the

 primary function of the base was to house Cuban

 refugees picked up at sea.

 Still, the deep blue Caribbean water and low yellow

 bills

 under a periwinkle sky packed picture-postcard

 charm. With cactus and palm trees and magnificent

 sunny days, the place reminded Toad of southern

 California. If the Cubans ever got their act

 together politically, he thought, this place would boom like

 southern California, with condos and high-tech

 industries sprouting like weeds. Hordes of people waving

 money would come here from Philly and New Jersey

 to retire. This place had Florida beat all

 to hell.

 He voiced this opinion to Rita, the only other

 person on the patio. It was early in the afternoon; the

 two of them had ridden the first liberty boat

 in after the ship anchored. Jake Grafton sent them

 packing because today was their anniversary.

 They had a room reserved at the BOQ for tonight.

 They intended to eat a relaxed dinner at the club,

 just the two of them, then retire for a private

 celebration.

 "The Cubans may not want hordes from Philly

 and Hoboken and Ashtabula moving inea"...Rita

 objected.

 "I wouldn't mind having a little place in one of these

 villages around here my own selfea"...Toad said,

 gesturing vaguely to the west or north. "Do some

 fishing, lay around getting old and fat and tan, let

 life flow by. Maybe build a golf course,

 spend my old age selling balls and watering

 greens. This looks like world-class golf country

 to me. Aaah, someday."

 "Someday, busterea"...Rita said, grinning. Toad

 liked to entertain her with talk about retirement, about

 loafing away the days reading novels and newspapers

 and playing golf, yet by ten o'clock on a lazy

 Sunday morning in the States he was bored stiff.

 He played golf once every other year, if it

 didn't rain.

 Now he sipped his beer and inhaled a few

 mighty lungfuls of this clean, clear, perfect

 air. "Feel that sun! Ain't life delicious,

 woman?"

 They had a nice dinner of Cuban cuisine, a

 fresh fish, beans and rice. By that time the club was

 filling up with junior officers from the squadrons

 aboard ship, in for lib-

 erty. The noise from the bars was becoming raucous when

 Toad and Rita finished their dinner and headed back

 to the patio with cups of coffee.

  "Maybe I better check on my

 chicksea"...Rita said, and detoured for the bar.

  Toad paused in the doorway, staring into the dark

 room, which was made darker by the brilliant sunlight

 shining outside the windows.

  "Commander Tarkingtonff"...Two of the young pilots

 came over to where Toad stood with his coffee cup.

 "Join us for a few minutes, won't you? We're

 drinking shooters. Have one with us."

  Rita was already standing by the table. Toad allowed

 himself to be persuaded.

  A trayful of brimming shot glasses sat on

 the small round table. As Toad watched, one of these

 fools set the liquor in the glasses on fire

 with a butane cigarette lighter.

  "Okay, Commander, show us how it's done!"

  Toad looked at Rita, who was studying him with a

 noncommittal raised eyebrow.

  He sat down, one of the youngsters placed a glass

 in front of him. The blue flame was burning

 nicely.

  It had been years since he did this. Was it

 Rota, that time he got so blind drunk he passed out

 while waiting for the taxi? Ah, but the navy was

 politically correct now. Nobody got drunk

 anymore.

  Toad steadied himself, took a deep breath,

 exhaled, and poured the burning brandy down his throat.

 It seemed to burn all the way down. Some of the

 liquid trickled from his lips, still on fire, but he

 licked it up with his tongue. Was he burning? He

 didn't think so. He wiped his mouth with the back of his

 hand just to make sure.

  The members of his audience were gazing at him with

 openmouthed astonishment. "Jesus, sir! We always

 blow the fire out before we drink it."

  Toad didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "You

 goddamn pussiesea"...he said, and tossed off another

 one.

 "Our anniversary, and you're drunk!"

 Toad Tarkington felt like he had been hit by a

 large truck, an eighteen wheeler, at least. He

 turned in the bathroom door and looked carefully

 at his spouse. He squinted to make his eyes

 focus better.

 "I am

 not

 drunk! A bit tipsy, I will grant you that. But

 not drunk."...He swelled his chest and tried to look

 sober. "Those puppies, thinking they could drink an

 old dog like me under the table."...He snorted his

 derision. ""We blow the fire out before we

 drink." Ha, ha, and ha!"

 Rita was sooo mad! "Oh, you"

 "Excuse me."...Toad held up a finger. "Just a

 minute or two, and we will continue this discussion

 until you have said everything that needs to be said. There is

 undoubtedly a lot of it and I am sure it will

 take a while. Just one little minute." He closed

 the bathroom door and retched into the commode. Then he

 swabbed his forehead with a wet washcloth.

 He felt better. He stared at himself in the

 mirror.

 You look like hell, you damned fool.

 He took a long drink of water, swabbed

 his face with a towel, then opened the door, and said,

 "Okay, you were saying?"

 She wasn't there. The room was empty.

 Even her bag was gone.

 He lay down in the bed. Oh, that felt gooood.

 Maybe he should just lie here for a few minutes

 until she cooled off and he sobered up

 completely, then he would find her and apologize.

 The room was whirling around, but whein he rolled on his

 side it steadied out somewhat and he drifted right off.

 Jake Grafton was alone at a table in the corner

 of the O Club dining room when Rita Moravia

 saw him and came over. He stood while she seated

 herself. "You're by yourself? Where's Toad?"

 "Sleeping it off. He was in the bar with your young studs

 and had four drinks. Four! He's whacked."

 Jake Grafton chuckled. "I don't think

 I've seen him drink more than an occasional beer

 or glass of wine with dinner in years."

 "He doesn'tea"...she said. "Poor guy can't handle

 it anymore."

 "Heck of an anniversary celebrationea"...Jake

 said, eyeing her.

 "I've been luckyea"...Rita said simply.

 "Toad Tarkmgton and I were made for

 each other. I don't know how the powers that rule the

 universe figure out who marries whom, but I

 sure got lucky."

 "I know what you meanea"...Jake said. Then he

 smiled, and Rita knew he was thinking of his wife,

 Callie. Jake Grafton always smiled when he

 thought of her.

 "So, maybe you should join me for dinnerea"...Jake said,

 "since Toad is temporarily indisposed and

 Callie is temporarily not here."

 "I've already eatenThat and tongues might wag,

 Admiralea"...she said with mock seriousness.

 "And probably will. Won't do me or thee any

 good."

 "I'm not going to live my life to please

 pinheadsea"...Rita replied. "I'll join you for a

 drink."

 After they gave their orders to the waiter, Jake said,

 "Tell me about the V-22. I've been wondering

 about that plane but haven't had the chance to talk to you."

 Away Rita went, talking about airplanes and

 flying, two subjects they both enjoyed

 immensely. The breeze coming through the open doors of the

 dining room stirred the curtains and made the candles

 on the tables flicker in the evening

 twilight.

 They were drinking after-dinner coffee when Rita

 remarked, "Toad says that you still haven't heard from

 Washington about your next set of orders."

 'That's right."

 "I don't want to talk about something you would rather

 STEPHEN COONTS

 not discuss, but he says they may ask you

 to retire."

 "They might. I've thrown my weight around a few

 times in the past and made some enemies, in uniform and

 out."...He shrugged. "Every flag officer gets passed

 over for a promotion at some point and asked

 to retire. My turn will come sooner or later.

 Maybe sooner."

 "Are you looking forward to retirement?""...Haven't

 thought about it that muchea"...he said. "To be honest, the

 prospect of spending more time with Gallic has great

 appeal."...He rubbed his forehead, then grinned

 ruefully. "It'll hurt if they don't find me

 another job, give me another star next year.

 Yet even a CNO gets told it's time to go.

 When it happens to me, Gallic and I will get on

 with the rest of our lives. The tram is, when I

 decided to stay in the navy after Vietnam

 I never expected to get this far: thought it'd be

 terrific if I made commander or captain. Here

 I am with two stars in charge of a carrier battle

 group."...He snorted derisively. "Guess it

 all goes to prove I'm an ungrateful bastard,

 huh?""...It goes to prove you're human.""...ally are

 very kind, Rita.""...ally've really enjoyed the navy,

 haven't you?""...Every tour has been a challenge, an

 adventure. Every set of orders I've had, I've

 thought, Oh, wow, this will be fun. I can't say

 I've enjoyed every day of it, because I haven't, but

 it's been a good career. Like most people who have worn the

 uniform, I did the best I could wherever they needed

 me. I've worked with great people all along the way. I

 have no regrets."

 One of Jake's aides came over to the table,

 smiled at Rita, then whispered in the admiral's

 ear. "The ship that left here four days ago carrying

 biological warheads to Norfolk never arrived.

 It is overdue."

 "Civilization begins when the strong finally realize

 they have a duty to protect the weak. That duty is the

 foundation of civilization, the bedrock on which everything

 else rests."

 Hector Sedano stood in the pulpit and

 looked at the sea of sweating, glistening faces that

 packed the church to overflowing. He could feel the heat

 from their bodies. There must be close to two hundred

 people jammed in here.

 Hector continued: "For centuries we, the people, have

 abdicated our duty to a few strong men. Rule

 us, we said, and do not steal too much. Do not be too

 corrupt, do not betray us too much, do not shame us

 beyond endurance. Protect the weak, the elderly, the

 helpless, the sick, the very young, protect them from those

 who would prey upon them. And protect us. If you

 grant us protection you may steal a little, enough

 to become filthy rich, as long as you do not rub our

 faces in it.

 "We give unto you the strong one a great trust because

 the faith to face the evil in the world is not in us.

 "O strong one, protect us because we lack the

 courage to protect ourselves."

 The crowd was rapt, wanting more.

 Hector Sedano had given this very same speech more

 than a hundred times. Only the faces in the

 audience were different. He leaned forward, reached out as

 if to grab the people. They had to understand, to feel his

 passion, or Cuba would never change. Perspiration

 ran down his face, soaked his shirt.

 "I say to you here tonight that our duty can be ignored no

 longer. The hands that made the universe are delivering

 our destiny into our very own human hands. We must

 seize the day when it comes. We must acknowledge before

 God and before each other that the future of this nation is

 ours

 to write,

 ours

 to invent,

 ours

 to live, and

 ours

 to answer for before disthe throne of heaven on Judgment

 Day."

 A thunderous applause shook the tiny church.

 When it died, Hector continued, "I say to you that the

 future of

 our

 families is on

 our

 heads, that the fate of this people is

 our

 responsibility and

 our

 destiny.

 "We shall drink every drop that God pours for us, be it

 sweet or bitter, be it thin or full, be it a

 tiny trickle or a

 great river. We shall not turn aside from that righteous

 cup."

 The applause swelled and swelled and filled the

 room to overflowing; it spilled through the open doors and

 windows and rushed bravely away to do battle with the

 silence and darkness of the night.

 "We pulled it offea"...Admiral Delgado told

 Alejo Vargas.

 "Nuestra Senora de Colon

 is stranded on a rocky reef near the entrance

 to Bahia de Nipe. Santana is ready and

 waiting."

 "What took so long?"

 "When she left Guantanamo the Americans

 swit a destroyer to accompany her. The captain was

 beside himself he thought the destroyer would accompany them

 all the way to Norfolk. He faked an engineering

 casualty in the Windward Passage, crawled

 along at three knots. Of course, then the

 destroyer refused to leave. He finally had

 to announce that he had fixed the problem and steam off

 at twelve knots before the destroyer

 turned back."

 Vargas smiled. "If this works, I will be very

 grateful to you, Delgado."

 'There are real problems, which we have discussed. I

 give this operation no more than a fifty percent chance

 of success."

 "Fifty percent is optimisticea"...Alejo

 Vargas replied. "I suspect the odds are a

 lot worse than that. Yet they are good enough to take a

 chance, and if we don't do that, we have only ourselves

 to blame, eh?"

 "Doing business with the North Koreans is an

 invitation to be double-crossed. How do you know they will

 perform?"

 "We need long-range ballistic missiles, the

 North Koreans want well-designed,

 well-made biological warheads. The exchange

 is fair."

 "I still do not trust themea"...Delgado countered. "This

 is a once-in-a-lifetime deal."

 Vargas changed the subject: Delgado was not a

 partner, he was the hired help. 'Tell me about your

 evening cruise with Maximo Sedano."

 "He wants political backing when Castro

 dies."

 "What did you promise him?"

 "I told him you buy people or blackmail them, that

 he has no chance."

 "And Alba?"

 "He agreed with my assessment."

 Vargas smiled. "Let us hope Maximo

 stifles his ambitions. For his sake. You told the

 man the honest truth; if he chooses to disregard it

 the consequences are on his head."

 Delgado said nothing. He suspected Vargas had

 already talked to Alba: the admiral hoped the general

 didn't try to dress up the tale. Telling

 Vargas the truth was the only way to stay alive.

 Toad Tarkington was sitting by the window in the BOQ

 room thinking about biological weapons and marines

 dug in around a warehouse when Rita unlocked the

 door and came in. She was still in uniform. His head

 was thumping like a toothache and he felt like hell.

 "Some anniversaryea"...he said. "1 feel like an

 ass."

 She came over to the chair, knelt and put her arms

 around him.

 "This wasn't the way the evening was supposed to go..

 I'm sorry, Rita."

 "Our life together has been terrific,

 Toad-man. You're still the guy I want."

 He hugged her back.

 "Let's go to bedea"...she said.

 The emotional impact of what he had done didn't

 hit Maximo Sedano until the jet to Madrid

 leveled off after the climbout from Havana

 airport.

 He took the transfer cards bearing Castro's

 thumbprint from his inside left breast pocket, and

 holding them so no one else in first class could read

 them, studied them carefully.

 He was holding $53 million in his hands and he could

 feel the heat. Hoo, man! He had done it!

 He took a chance, a long chance. When he walked

 into Castro's bedroom he had had the real transfer

 cards in his left jacket pocket and the ones bearing

 his bank account numbers in his right. Mercedes

 wasn't there that second time he was admitted, which was

 a blessing. His former sister-in-law was too sharp,

 saw too much. She might have decided something was

 wrong merely from looking at his face.

 So it was just Fidel and a male nurse, a nobody

 who handled bedpans and urinals. There wasn't a

 notebook or ledger anywhere in sight, and Fidel

 certainly was in no condition to closely

 scrutinize the cards. He signed the cards,

 transferring die money to Maximo, then let

 Maximo put his thumb in an ink pad and press it

 on each of them.

 Fidel said little. He had obviously been given

 an injection for pain and was paying minimal attention

 to what went on around him. He merely grunted when

 Maximo said good-bye.

 The Maximo Sedano who walked into that bedroom was

 his

 the soon-to-be unemployed Cuban finance minister

 with a cloudy future. The Maximo Sedano who

 walked out was the richest Cuban south of Miami.

 Just like

 that backslash

 The icing on the cake was that the Swiss accounts should have

 perhaps a million more of those beautiful Yankee

 dollars as unpd interest. Every penny was going to be

 transferred to Maximo's accounts at another bank

 in Zurich. It wouldn't be there long, however. Tomorrow

 morning after he turned in these transfer cards

 to Fidel's banks, he would walk across the street

 and send the money from his accounts to those he had opened in

 Spain, Mexico, Germany, and Argentina. These were

 commercial accounts held by various shell

 corporations that Maximo had established years ago

 to launder money for Fidel and the drug

 syndicates, accounts'over which he had sole

 signature authority. The shell corporations would

 quickly write a variety of very large checks to a

 half dozen other companies Maximo owned. After a

 long, tortuous trail around the globe and back

 again, the money would eventually wind up in Maximo's

 personal accounts all over Europe.

 The scheme hinged on the bank secrecy laws in

 various nations, not the least of which was Switzerland, and the

 fact that anyone trying to trace the money would see

 only disorganized pieces of the puzzle, not the big

 picture.

 Maximo smiled to himself and sighed in contentment.

 "Would you care for a drink, sir"..."...the flight

 attendant asked. She was a beautiful slender

 woman, with dark eyes and clear white skin.

 "A glass of white wine, please, something from

 Cataluna."

 "I'll see what we have aboard, sir."...She

 smiled gently and left him.

 Maximo told himself that he would find a woman like that

 one of these days, a beautiful woman who

 appreciated the finer things in life and

 appreciated him for providing them.

 His wife was expecting him to return to Cuba in

 three days: "I must go to Europe in the

 morningea"...he had told her. "An urgent matter

 has arisen.".

 She wanted to go with him on this trip of courseanything

 to get off the island, even for a little while.

 "Darling, I wish you could, but there wasn't time

 to make reservations. I got the only empty seat

 on the airliner."

 She was not happy. Still, what could she say? He

 promised to bring her something expensive from a

 jeweler, and that promise pacified her.

 The flight attendant brought the glass of wine and

 he sipped it, then put his head back in the seat and

 closed his eyes. Ah, yes,

 He had a new identity hi his wallet: an

 Argentine passport, driver's license and

 identity papers, a birth certificate, several

 valid credit cards, a bank account and a real

 address in Buenos Aires, all in the name of

 Eduardo Jos6 Lopez, a nice common surname.

 This identity had been constructed years before and

 serviced regularly so that he might move money

 around the globe when drug smugglers sought

 to pay Fidel Castro. Becoming the good Senor

 Lopez would be as easy as presenting the passport

 when checking into a hotel.

 He had the papers for two other identities in a

 safe deposit box in Lausanne, across the lake

 from Geneva.

 Maxlmo Sedano fingered the bank transfer cards

 one more time, then reclined his seat.

 How does it feel to be rich? Damned good, thank

 you very much,

 Lord, it was tempting. Just walk away with the money as

 Senor Lopez, and poof! disappear into thin air.

 And yet, the gold was there for the taking. His plans were

 made, his allies ready... all he had to do was

 find the gold and get it out of the country.

 He reclined his seat, closed his eyes, and savored

 the feeling of being rich.

 * * *

 Dona Sedano was sitting on her porch, inhaling the

 gentle aroma of the tropical flowers that grew around

 her porch in profusion and watching the breeze stir the

 petals, when she saw Hector walking down the

 road. He turned in at her gate and came up

 to the porch.

 After he kissed her he sat on the top

 step, leaned back so he could see her face.

 "Why aren't you in school, teaching"..."...she asked.

 He made a gesture, looked away to the north,

 toward the sea.

 There was nothing out that way but a few treetops waving

 in the wind, with puffy clouds floating overhead.

 He turned back to look into her face, reached for

 her hand. "Ocho went on a boat.two nights

 ago. They were trying to reach the Florida Keys."

 "Did they make it?"

 "I don't know. If they make it we won't hear

 for days. Weeks perhaps. If they don't reach

 Florida we may never hear."

 Dona Maria leaned forward and touched her son's

 hair. Then she put her twisted hands back in her

 lap.

 'Thank you for telling me."

 "Ocho should have told you."

 "Good-byes can be difficult."

 "I suppose."

 "You are the brightest of my sons, the one with the most

 promise. Why didn't you go to America,

 Hector? You had plenty of chances. Why did you

 stay hi this hopeless place?"

 "Cuba is my home."...He gestured

 helplessly. "This is the work God has given me

 to do."

 Dona Maria gently massaged her hands. Rubbing

 them seemed to ease the pain sometimes.

 "I might as well tell you the rest of

 itea"...Hector said. "Ocho got a girl

 pregnant. He went on the boat with the

 girl and her father. The father wants Ocho to play

 baseball in America."

 "Pregnant?"

 "Ocho told me, made me promise not to tell.

 He did not confess to me as a priest but as a

 brother, so I am exercising an older brother's

 prerogativeI am breaking that promise."

 She sighed, closed her eyes for a moment.

 "If God is with them, they may make it across the

 Straitsea"...Hector said. "There is always that

 hope."

 Tears ran down her cheeks.

 It was at that moment that Dona Maria saw the human

 condition more clearly than she ever had before. She and

 Hector were two very mortal people trapped

 by circumstance, by fate, between two vast eternities.

 The past was gone, lost to them. The people they loved who were

 dead were gone like smoke, and they had only

 memories of them. The future was ... well, the

 future was unknowable, hidden in the haze. Here there was

 only the present, this moment, these two mortal people with

 their memories of all that had been.

 Hector stroked his mother's hair, kissed her

 tears, then went down the walk to the road. When he

 looked back his mother was still sitting where he had left

 her, looking north toward the sea.

 Ocho was probably dead, Hector realized,

 another victim of the Cuban condition.

 When, O Lard, when will it stop? How many more people must

 drown in the sea? How many more lives must be blighted

 and ruined by the lack of opportunity here? How many more

 lives must be sacrificed on the altar of

 political ambition?

 As he walked toward the village bus stop, he

 lifted his hands and roared his rage, an angry shout

 mat was lost in the cathedral of the sky.

 The pain was there, definitely there, but it wasn't

 cutting at him, doubling him over. Fidel Castro

 made them get him up, had them put him in a chair

 behind his desk. He wanted the flag to his right

  Mercedes and the nurse helped him into his green

 fatigue shirt.

  He was perspiring then, gritting his teeth

 to get through this.

  "Do you know what you want to say"..."...Mercedes

 asked.

  "I think so."

  The camera crew was fiddling with the lights, arranging

 power cords.

  "I want to say something to you, right nowea"...she

 whispered, "while you are sharp and not heavily

 sedated."

  His eyes went to her.

  "I love you, Fidel. With all my heart."

  "And I you, woman. Would that we had more time."

  "Ah, time, what a whore she is. We had each

 other, and mat was enough."

  He bit his lip, reached for her hand. "If only

 we had met years ago, before"

  He winced again. "Better start the tapeea"...he

 said. "I haven't much time."...He straightened,

 gripped the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles

 turned white.

  With the lights on, Fidel Castro looked

 straight into the camera, and spoke: "Citizens of

 Cuba, I speak to you today for the last time. I am

 fatally ill and my days on this earth will soon be

 over. Before I leave you, however, I wish

 to spend a few minutes telling you of my dream for

 Cuba, my dream of what our nation can become in the

 years ahead...."

  The door opened and Alejo Vargas walked hi.

 Behind him was Colonel Pablo Santana.

  "Well, well,

 Senor Presidente. I

 heard you were making a speech to the video cameras this

 afternoon. Do not mind us; please continue. We will

 remain silent spectators, out

 of die sight of the camera, two loyal Cubans

 representing millions of others."

 "I did not invite you here, Vargas.""...'True, you

 did not,

 Senor Presidente.

 But things seem to be slipping away from you these

 daysimportant things. The world will not stop turning on

 its axis while you lie in bed taking drugs."

 "Get out! This is my office."

 Alejo Vargas settled into a chair. He turned

 to the camera crew. 'Turn that thing off. The lights

 too. Then you may take a short break. We will

 call you when we want you to return."

 The extinguishment of the television lights made the

 room seem very dark.

 Colonel Santana escorted the technicians"

 from the room and closed the door behind them. He stood

 with his back against the door, his arms crossed.

 "If you are pushing the button near your knee

 to summon the security staff, you are wasting your

 timeea"...Vargas said. "Members of my staff have

 replaced them."

 "Say what you want, then get outea"...Castro said.

 Vargas got out a cigarette, lit it, taking his

 time. "I am wondering about Maximo Sedano. The

 night before last he was here, you signed something for him,

 he left this morning on a plane to Madrid, with a

 continuation on to Zurich. What was that all about?"

 Fidel said nothing. Mercedes noticed that he was

 perspiring again.

 "I am in no rushea"...Vargas said. "I have all the

 time in the world."

 Fidel ground his teeth. "He went to move

 funds. On a matter of interest to the Finance

 Ministry."

 "The question is, where will the funds end up when their

 electronic journey is over? Tell me that,

 please."

 "In the government's accounts in the Bank of

 Cuba, in Havana."

 "I ask this question because the man who was here last

 night did not see you check the account numbers in

 any book or ledger. You have the account numbers

 memorized?"

  "No."

  "So in reality you don't know where Maximo

 Sedano will wire the money?"

  "He is a trustworthy man. Loyal. I cannot

 be everywhere, see everything, and must trust people. I have

 trusted people all my Me."

  "How much money are we talking about,

 Senor PresidenteThat

 "I don't know."

  "Millions?"

  "Yes."

  "Tens of millions?"

  "Yes."

 "Dios mio,

 our Maximo must be a saint! I wouldn't trust my

 own mother with that kind of money."

  "I wouldn't trust your mother with a drunken

 sailorea"...Mercedes said. "Not if he had two

 centavos in his pocket."...She handed some pills

 to Castro, who glanced down at them.

  "Water, pleaseea"...he whispered. He

 put the pills on the desk in front of him.

  Vargas continued: "If we ever see the face of

 Maximo Sedano again,

 Senor Presidente,

 you have me to thank. I am having one of my men meet

 the finance minister in Zurich. We will try to convince

 Maximo to do his duty to his country."

  Mercedes handed Fidel a glass of water. He

 picked up several of the pills, put them in his mouth,

 then swallowed some water. Then he put the last

 pill in his mouth and took another swig.

  Vargas was a moral nihilist, Castro thought,

 a man who believed in nothing. There were certainly

 plenty of those. He had known what Vargas was for many

 years and had used nun anyway because he was good at his

 job, which

 STEPHEN COONTS

 was a miserable one.

 We entrusted it to a swine so that we need not dirty

 our hands.

 Another mistake.

 "I need restea"...he said, and tried to rise.

 "Noea"...Vargas said fiercely. He leaned on the

 desk with both hands, lowered his face near Fidel.

 "You still have a statement to make before the

 cameras."

 "Nothing for you."

 "You think you have nothing to lose, do you not? You think,

 Alejo could kill me, but what is that? He merely

 speeds up the inevitable."

 Fidel looked Vargas square in the eye. "I

 should have killed you years and years agoea"...he said. He

 took his hands from the arms of his chair and wrapped them

 around his stomach.

 "There is no regret as bitter as the murder you

 didn't commit. How true that is! But you didn't

 kill me because you needed me, Fidel,. needed me

 to ferret out your enemies, find who was whispering against

 you and bring you then* names. Help you shut their mouths,

 cut out the rot without killing the tree.

 "Kill me? Without me how would you have kept your

 wretched subjects loyal? Who would have kept these

 miserable

 guajiros

 starving on this sandy rock in the sea's middle from

 cutting the flesh from your bones? Who would have provided

 the muscle to keep you in office when the Russians

 abandoned you and nothing went right? When everything you touched

 backfired?

 "Kill me?

 Ha!

 That would have been like killing yourself.

 "Now I have come for mine. Not centavos, like in the

 past. I want what is mine for keeping you in power

 all these years, for keeping the peasants from slicing

 your throat when in truth that was precisely what you

 deserved. You are a miserable failure, Fidel,

 as a man and as a servant of Cuba. And you are

 going to die a revered old manGod,

 what a joke! Hailed as the Cuban Washington

 for the next ten centuries...."

 Vargas sneered.

 "Now still have the power of life or death, Fidel. I

 think you will make your statement in front of the camera.

 You will name me, Alejo Vargas, your loyal,

 trusted minister of interior as your successor; you will

 plead with all loyal Cubans everywhere

 to recognize the wisdom of your choice."

 Sweat ran in rivulets from Fidel's face,

 dripped from his beard. His voice came out a hoarse

 whisper. "Forty years" service to my country, and

 you expect me to hand Cuba over to you? To rape

 tilde for your profit? Not on your life."

 "Don't be a fool. You have nothing to bargain with."

 "Kill me. See what you gamea"...Fidel

 said, his voice barely audible.

 "You'll die soon enough, never fear. But before you do

 Colonel Santana will butcher Mercedes on this

 table while you watch."

 "Have you no honor?"

 "Don't talk to me of honor. You have told so many

 lies you can't remember ever telling the truth. You have

 profaned the Church, denied God, sent loyal

 Cuban soldiers to die in Angola, demanded that

 generation after generation give their blood to fulfill your

 destiny as Cuba's savior. You have impoverished a

 nation, reduced them to beggary to salve your ego. I

 spit on you and all that you would have us become."

 And he did.

 Fidel brought a hand up to wipe away the

 spittle. "Fuck youff"...he whispered.

 "And you too,

 Lider Maximal"

 Vargas shot back. "I do not pretend to be

 God's other son, strutting in green fatigues and

 spouting platitudes while the people worship me. But

 enough of this. Before we get to the camera, tell me where the

 gold is."

 "The gold?"

 STEPHEN COONTS

 "The gold, Fidel. The gold from the peso coins

 that the Ministry of Finance melted down into ingots, the

 gold ingots that you and Che and Edis Lopez and

 Jos6 Otero carried away. How much gold was

 there? Forty or fifty tons? You certainly

 didn't spend it on the people of Cuba. Where is it?"

 A grimace twisted Castro's lips, "You'll

 never find it, that's for certain. Edis and Jos6

 died within weeks of Che. I am the only living

 person who knows where mat gold is; I am taking

 the secret to my grave."

 "The gold isn't yours."

 "Nor is it yours, you son of a pig."

 "We will let you watch us cut up Mercedes. We

 will make a tiny incision on her abdomen, pull out

 a loop of small intestine. I will ask you questions, and

 every time you refuse to answer Colonel Santana will

 pull out more intestine. You will tell us everything we

 want-to know or we will see what her insides

 look like. Colonel?"

 Santana grabbed Mercedes by the arms. With one hand

 he grabbed the front of her dress and ripped it from

 her body.

 Fidel Castro's jaw moved. Then he went

 limp, slumping in his chair.

 "Fideir

 Mercedes screamed.

 Vargas leaped for Castro, pried open his jaw and

 raked a piece of celluloid from his mouth with his

 finger.

 "Poisonea"...he said disgustedly. He felt

 Castro's wrist for a pulse.

 "Stone cold dead."...He tossed down the wrist and

 turned toward Mercedes.

 "You

 gave him the poison! He had the capsule in his

 mouth."

 Alejo Vargas slapped her as hard as he could.

 "And this is for insulting my mother,

 puta backslash was

 He slapped her again so hard she went to her knees,

 the side of her face numb. "If you do it again I

 will cut your tongue outea"...he added, his voice almost a

 hiss.

 Then Vargas took a deep breath and steadied himself.

 The sight of Fidel Castro's corpse drained the

 rage from bun and filled him with adrenaline, ready

 for the race to his destiny. He had waited all his

 life for this moment and now it was here.

  "Listen to misea"...the technician said, and

 handed the earphones to William Henry Chance. They

 were crammed into a tiny van with the logo of the

 Communications Ministry on the side. The van was

 parked on a side street near Chance's hotel, but

 with an excellent view of the Interior Ministry.

  Chance put on the headphones.

  "We recorded this stuff early mis morningea"...the

 technician told Chance's associate, Tommy

 Carmeltini. "Getting to you without stirring up the

 Cubans was the trick. Wait until you hear this

 stuff."

  "What is it"..."...Cannellini asked.

  "Vargas and his thug, Santana, hi the

 minister's office. They're talking about a speech

 they want Castro to make in front of cameras.

 A political will, Vargas called it They are

 writing it, debating the wording."

  "What do they want it to sayour

  "They want Castro to name Vargas as his

 successor, his heir."*

  "Will he do that?"'

  "They seem to think he will."

  "Have we heard anything back from Washington about that

 ship referencethe

 Coldnl... Nuestra Senora de Co

 backslash 6nThat

 "No. Something like that will take days to percolate through

 the bureaucracy."

  "I was hoping the reference to North Koreans and

 biological warheads would light a fire under

 somebody."

  "It always takes a while before we smell the

 smoke of burning trousers."

  CarmelUni watched Chance's face as he

 listened to the

 STEPHEN COONTS

 tape. William Henry Chance, attorney and

 CIA agent, certainly didn't look like a man

 who would be at home in the shadow world of spies and

 espionage. But then appearances were often deceiving.

 Carmellini had been a burglarmore or less

 semi-retiredattending the Stanford University

 Law School when he was visited one day by a

 CIA recruiter, a woman who took him to lunch

 in the student union cafeteria and asked him about

 bis plans for the future. He still remembered the

 conversation. He was going into business, he said.

 Maybe politics. He thought that someday he might

 run for public office.

 "A prosecution for stealing the Peabody

 diamond from the Museum of Natural History in

 Washington would probably crimp your plans,

 wouldn't it?"' she said sweetly.

 He gaped. Sat there like a fool with his mouth hanging

 open, the brain completely stalled.

 He had seen her credentials, which certainly looked

 official enough. Central Intelligence Agency.

 The Government with a capital G. But there had never

 been the slightest hint that anyone was on his trail.

 Not even a sniff.

 "It would do thatea"...he managed.

 After a bit, the question of how she knew formed hi his

 mind, and he began trying to figure out how to ask it

 hi a nonincriminating way.

 "You're wondering, I supposeea"...she said

 matter-of-factly between sips of her coffee, "how

 we learned of your involvement."

 Unable to help himself, he nodded yes.

 "Your pal talked. The Miami PD got him

 on another burglary, so he threw you to the wolves

 to get a lighter sentence."

 Well, there it was. His very best friend in the whole world

 and the only guy who knew everything had sold him out.

 "You need some better friendsea"...she said. "Your friend is

 a pretty small-caliber guy. A real

 loser. He got eight

 years on the state charge. Moving stolen property

 across state lines is a federal crime of course,

 and Justice hasn't decided if they will

 prosecute."

  It quickly became plain that at that moment in his

 life, the CIA was his best career choice.

  After finishing law school, Carmellini spent a

 year in the covert operations section of the agency. Now

 he was an associate of William Henry Chance,

 who had been with the CIA ever since he left the army

 after the Vietnam War. The cover was impecca2oth

 men were really practicing attorneys and CIA

 operatives on the side.

  Carmellini remembered the first tune he met

 William Henry Chance. He was running a

 ten-kilometer race hi Virginia one weekend

 when Chance came galloping up beside him, barely

 sweating, and suggested they have lunch afterward.

  Chance mentioned a name, Carmellini's boss at the

 agency. "He said you were a pretty good

 runnerea"...Chance said, then began lengthening his stride.

  Tommy Carmellini managed to stay with Chance

 all the way to the tape but it was a hell of a workout

 Chance didn't work at running; he loped

 along, all lean meat, bone, and sinew, a

 natural long-distance runner. Carmellini, on the

 other hand, was built more like a running back or

 middle linebacker.

  About half of Carmellini's time was spent on

 agency matters, half on the firm's business.

 He was a better covert warrior than he was a

 lawyer, so he had to work hard to keep up with the bright

 young associates who had not the slightest idea that

 Carmellini or Chance were also employed by the CIA.

  Sitting in a telephone company van hi the

 middle of Havana listening to intercepted conversations,

 Tommy Carmellini wondered if he should have told

 the CIA to stick it. He would probably be getting

 out of prison about now, free and clear.

  And broke, of course. His friend had fenced the

 diamond

 and spent all the money, never intending to give

 Carmellini his share.

 On the table were a set of photos the technicians

 had taken of the University of Havana science

 building. They had had the place under surveillance

 for the last two days.

 Carmellini looked at the photos critically, as

 if he were going to burgle the joint. There were

 guards at every entrance, some electronic alarms:

 getting in would take some doing.

 After a while Chance handed the headphones to a

 technician. He sat looking at Carmellini with a

 frown on his face.

 "I think Vargas plans to kill Fidelea"...Chance

 said finally.

 "When?"

 "Soon. Very soon. Today or tomorrow, I would

 imagine."

 "And then?"'

 "Your guess is as good as mine."

 The men left alive aboard

 Angel del Mar

 were unable to get the engine restarted, so it drifted

 helplessly with the wind and swell. Ocho took his

 turn in the tiny, cramped engine compartment. Something

 down inside the engine was broken, perhaps the

 crankshaft. Rotating the propeller shaft by hand

 made a clunky noise; at a certain point in the

 shaft's rotation it became extremely difficult

 to turn. Admitting finally that repairing the motor was

 hopeless, Ocho backed out of the small compartment. His

 place was taken by someone else who wanted

 to satisfy himself personally that the engine was

 indeed beyond repair.

 After a while they all gave up and shut the door.

 Without the engine they had to work the bilge pump

 manually. Fifteen minutes of intense effort

 cleared the bilges of water. With daylight coming through the

 hatch one could just see the water seeping in between the

 planks where the sea had pounded the caulking loose.

 It took about fifteen minutes for the bilges

 to fill, then they had to be

 pumped again. A quarter hour of work, a quarter hour

 of rest.

  "If we can just keep pumpingea"...the old fisherman

 said, "we stay afloat."

  "If the water doesn't come in any

 fasterea"...Ocho added. He was young and strong, so he

 spent hours sitting here in the bilge working the pump,

 watching the water come in.

  Twenty-six people remained alive. The captain's

 body was still hi the wheelhouse, where he had fallen.

 No one wanted to take responsibility for moving

 bun.

  After a morning working the bilge pump, Ocho

 Sedano stood braced against the wheelhouse and, shading

 his eyes, looked carefully in all directions. The

 view was the same as it was yesterday,

 swells that ran off to the horizon, and above it all

 a sky crowded with puffy little clouds.

  At least the sea had subsided somewhat. The wind

 no longer tore whitecaps off the waves. The

 breeze seemed steady, maybe eight or ten

 knots out of the southwest.

  One suspected the boat was drifting northeast,

 riding the Gulf Stream. The nearest land in that

 direction was the Bahamas.

  The United States was north, or perhaps

 northwest-now. A whole continent was just over the

 horizon, with people, cities, restaurants, farms,

 mountains, rivers... if only they could get there.

  Well, someone would see this boat drifting before

 too long. Someone in a plane or fishing boat,

 perhaps an American coast guard cutter or navy

 ship looking for drug smugglers. They would see the

 Angel del Mar

 drifting helplessly, give the people stranded on her

 water and food, then take them to Guantinamo Bay

 and make them walk through the gate back to Cuba.

 Or maybe they would be taken to hospitals in

 America.

  Already some of these people needed hospitals. They had

 vomited too much, been without water for too

 long. They had become dehydrated, then-

 electrolytes dangerously out of balance, and if

 left unattended would die. Just

 like the people swept over me side last night.

 Of course, knowing all this, there was absolutely

 nothing Ocho Sedano could do. He too felt the

 ravages of thirst, felt the aching of the empty knot

 hi his stomach. Fortunately he had not been

 seasick, had not retched his guts out until he had

 only the dry heaves like so many of these others lying

 helpless in the sun.

 The wheelhouse cast a little shade, so he dragged

 several people in out of the sun. Maybe that would help a

 little.

 The sea seemed to keep the boat broadside to it,

 so the shade didn't move around too much, which was a

 blessing.

 There wasn't room in die shade for everyone.

 "The sailea"...sd the fisherman. "There is an old

 piece of canvas around the boom. Let's see if

 we can get it up."

 They worked with the canvas in the afternoon sun for over an

 hour, trying to rig it as a sail. It wasn't

 really a sail, but an awning. Finally die

 fisherman said maybe it was best used

 to catch rain and protect people from die sun, so they

 rigged it across die boom and tied it there.

 Ocho dragged as many people under it as he could, then lay

 exhausted on die board deck in die shade, his

 tongue a swollen, heavy, rough thing in his dry

 mouth.

 Sweating. He was going to have to stop sweating like this, stop

 wasting his bodily fluids. Stop this exertion.

 Nearby a child cried. She would stop soon, he

 thought, too tiiirsty to waste energy crying.

 He sat up, looked for Dora. She was sitting in

 die shade with her back against die wheelhouse. Her

 father, Diego Coca, lay on die deck beside her,

 his head in her lap. She looked at Ocho, then

 averted her gaze.

 "What should I have done"..."...he asked.

 She couldn't have heard him.

 He got up, went over to where she was. "What should

 I have done?"

 She said nothing, merely lowered her head. She was

 stroking her father's hair. His eyes were closed, he

 seemed oblivious to bis surroundings and die

 corkscrewing motion

 of the drifting boat. His body moved slackly as the

 boat rose and fell.

 Ocho Sedano went into the wheelhouse. Above the

 captain's swollen corpse the helm wheel kicked

 back and forth in rhythm to the pounding of the sea.

 Ocho held his breath, turned the body over, went

 through the pockets. A few pesos, a letter, a

 home-made pocketknife, a worn, rusty

 bolt, a stub of a pencil, a button ... not much

 to show for a lifetime of work.

 Already the body was swelling in the heat. The face was

 dark and mottled.

 He dragged the captain's stiff body from the

 wheelhouse, got it to the rail and hooked one of the

 arms across the railing. Then he lifted the feet.

 The dead man was very heavy. -

 Grunting, working alone since none of his audience

 lifted a hand to help, Ocho heaved the weight up

 onto the rail and balanced it there as the boat

 rolled. Timing the roll, he released the body and

 it fell into the sea.

 The corpse floated beside the boat face up. The

 lifeless eyes seemed to follow Ocho.

 He tore himself away, finally, and watched the top

 of the mast make circles against the gray-white

 clouds and patchy blue.

 When he looked again at the water the

 captain's corpse was still there, still face up. The

 sea water made a fan of his long hair, swirled

 and

 back and forth as if it were waving in a breeze.

 Water flowed into and out of his open mouth as the corpse

 bobbed up and down.

 The long nights, the sun, heat, and exhaustion

 caught up with Ocho Sedano and he could no longer

 remain upright. He lowered himself to the deck, wedged his

 body against the railing, and slept.

 "That freighter that left Gitmo last week, the one

 carrying the warheads?"

 "I rememberea"...Toad Tarkington said. "The

 Colon,

 or something like that."

 "Nuestra Senora de Coldn.

 She never made it to Norfolk."

 "What"..."...Toad stared at the admiral, who was

 holding the classified message.

 "She never arrived. Atlantic Fleet HQ is

 looking for her rightJiow."

 Toad took the message, scanned it, then handed it

 back.

 "We sent a destroyer with that shipea"...the admiral

 said. "Call the captain, find out everything

 you can. I want to know when he last saw that ship and

 where she was."

 In minutes Toad had the CO on the secure

 voice circuit "We went up through the Windward and

 Mayaguanan passagesea"...Toad was told. "They

 were creeping along at three Joiots, but they got

 their engineering plant rolling again and worked up

 to twelve knots, so we left her a hundred

 miles north of San Salvador, heading

 north."...The captain gave the date and time.

 "The

 Coldn

 never arrived in Norfolkea"...Toad said.

 "I'll be damned! Lost with all hands?"

  "I doubt that very muchea"...Toad replied.

  Toad got on the encrypted voice circuit,

 telling the computer technicians in Maryland what he

 wanted. Soon the computers began chattering.

 Rivers of digital, encrypted data from the

 National Security Agency's mainframe computers

 at Fort Meade, Maryland, were bounced off a

 satellite and routed into the computers aboard

 United States.

 On the screens before him he began seeing

 pictures, radar images from

 satellites in space looking down onto the earth.

 The blips that were the

 Coldn

 and her escorting destroyer were easily picked out as

 they left Guantdnamo Bay and made their way

 through the Windward Passage.

 The screens advanced hour by hour. The three-knot

 speed of advance made the blips look almost

 stationary, so Toad flipped quickly through the screens,

 then had to wait while the data feed caught up.

 Jake Grafton joined him, and they looked at the

 screens together.

 The two blips crawled north, past

 Mayaguana, past San Salvador, then they

 sped up. The destroyer turning back was obvious.

 As Jake and Toad watched, the blip that was the

 Colon

 turned southeast, back toward the Bahamas

 archipelago. Then the blip merged into a sea of

 white return.

 "Now what?"

 "It's rainea"...Jake said. "There was a storm. The

 blip is buried somewhere in that rain return. Call

 NSA. See if they can screen out the rain

 effect."

 He was right; the rain did obscure the blip. But

 NSA could not separate the ship's return from that

 caused by rain.

 "See if they can do a probability study, show us

 the most probable location of the

 Coldn

 in the middle of that mess."

 The computing the admiral requested took hours, and the

 results were inconclusive. As the intensity of the

 showers increased and decreased, the probable location of the

 ship expanded and contracted like a living circle.

 Jake and Toad drank coffee and ate sandwiches

 as they waited and watched the computer presentations.

 Jake wandered around the compartment looking at maps between

 glances at the computer screen and conversations over

 another encrypted circuit with the brass in the

 Pentagon. The White House was in the loop nowthe

 president wanted to know how in hell a shipload of

 chemical and biological warheads could disappear.

 "What do you think happened, Admiral"..."...Toad

 asked.

 'Too many possibilities."

 "Do the people in Washington blame you for not having the

 Coldn

 escorted all the way to Norfolk?"

 "Of course. The national security adviser wants

 to know , why the destroyer left the

 Colon."

 Toad bristled. "You weren't told to escort that

 ship, you

 were told to guard the base. Escorting that ship out of the

 area wasn't your responsibility."""

 "Somebody is going to second-guess every decision

 I makeea"...Jake Grafton said, "all of them.

 They're doing that right now. That comes with the stars and the

 job."

 "Hindsight is a wonderful thing."

 "I'll be out on the golf course soon enough, and the

 only person who will second-guess me then will be

 my wife."

 Despite the best efforts of the wizards in Maryland

 and aboard ship, the location of the

 Colon

 under the rain of the cold front could not be established.

 Jake gave up, finally.

 'Tell them to move forward in time. Let's see where

 the ship was after the storm."

 But when the rain ceased, the computer could not identify the

 Colon

 from the other ship returns. There were

 thirty-two medium- to large-sized vessels in the

 vicinity of the Bahamas alone.

 Toad stayed on the encrypted circuit to the NSA

 wizards. Finally he hung up the handset and turned

 to the admiral.

 "They can assign track numbers to each blip,

 watch where they go, and by process of elimination come up

 with the most likely blips. There is a lot of

 computing Involved. The process will take hours,

 maybe a day of* two."

 Jake Grafton picked up the flight schedule,

 took a look, then handed it to Toad. "Put the

 air wing up in a surface search pattern.

 Let's see what we"...c find out there now."

 Toad turned to the chart on the bulkhead. "Where do

 you want them to look?"

 "From the north coast of Cuba north into the

 Bahamas. Look along the coast of

 Hispaniola, all the way to Puerto Rico. Do

 the Turks and Caicos. Have the crews

 photograph every ship they see. Have NSA

 establish current ship tracks, then match up

 what the air crews see with what the satellite

 sees. Then let's run the current plot

 backward."

 "Someone got a lucky break with the rain

 stormea"...Toad

 commented. "Maybe they were playing for the break, maybe

 it just happened."

  "Send a top secret message to the Gitmo

 base commander. Find out everything they know about die

 crew of that ship."

  Jake Grafton tapped the chart. "The

 president gave everyone in uniform their marching

 orders. Find that ship."

 Maximo Sedano flashed his diplomatic

 passport at the immigration officer in the Madrid

 airport and was waved through after a perfunctory

 glance. His suitcase was checked through to Zurich, and of

 course customs passed his attach@l case without

 inspection. Traveling as a diplomat certainly

 had its advantagesairport security did not

 even x-ray a diplomat's carry-on bags.

 - The Cuban minister of finance wandered the airport

 terminal luxuriating in the ambiance of Europe.

 The shops were full of delicacies, books,

 tobacco, clothes, liquor, the women were well

 turned out, the sights and smells were of civilization

 and prosperity and good living.

 In spite of himself, Maximo Sedano

 sighed deeply. Ah, yes...

 Spain or one of the Spanish islands would be his

 choice for retirement. With Europe at his feet,

 what more could a man want? And retirement seemed

 to Maximo to be almost within reach.

 What was the phrase? "Fire in the belly"? Some

 Yanqui politician said to win office one must have

 fire in the belly.

 After a morning of thinking about it, Maximo concluded

 he didn't have the fire. After Fidel died,

 Fidel's brother, Raiil or Maximo's

 brother Hector, or Alejo Vargas, or

 anyone else who could kill his rivals could rule

 CubaMaximo had given up trying for that prize.

 He'd take the money.

 And all the things money can buy: villas, beautiful

 women, yachts, gourmet food, fine wine,

 beautiful women

 ...

 Someone else could stand in the Plaza de la

 Revolution in Havana and revel in the cheers of the

 crowd.

 He filed aboard the plane to Zurich and settled

 cheerfully into his seat. He smiled at the flight

 attendant and beamed at the man across the

 aisle.

 Life is good, Maximo told himself, and

 unconsciously fingered his breast pocket, where the

 cards were that contained Fidel's signature and

 thumbprints.

 Why go back?

 Fifty-three or comfour million American

 dollars was more than enough. To hell with the gold!

 As the jet accelerated down the runway, Maximo

 told himself that the only smart thing was to take the money

 and retire. Now was the hour. Reel in the fish on

 the line don't let it off the hook to cast for

 another.

 He could transfer the money, spend three or four

 days shuffling it around, then leave Zurich on the

 Argentine passport as Eduardo Jos6 Lopez.

 Maximo Sedano would cease to exist.

 Off to Ibiza, buy a small cottage

 overlooking the sea, find a willing woman, not too

 young, not too old...

 Yes.

 He would do it.

 The sudden death of Fidel Castro caught Alejo

 Vargas off guard. The dictator's death was

 supposed to be days, even weeks, away.

 Unfortunately Vargas's political position was

 precarious, to say the least. He really could have used

 Fidel's endorsement, however obtained. At least

 now no one would get it.

 Although he had lived bis whole life in his

 brother's shadow, Raiil Castro nominally held

 the reins of government. Alejo Vargas thought that

 without Fidel, Raul was completely out on a

 limb, without a political constituency of his own.

 While he tried to analyze the moves on the

 board, Vargas had Colonel Santana lock

 Mercedes in a bedroom, seal

 the presidential palace, and put a security

 man on the telephone switchboard. He didn't

 want the news of Fidel's death to get out before he

 was ready.

 Vargas left Santana in charge of the palace and

 took his limo back to the ministry. Of course he

 refrained from using the telephone in his limo to issue

 orders. The Americans listened to every radio

 transmission on telephone frequencies and would

 soon know as much about his business as he did. He

 sat silently as the limo carried him through the afternoon

 traffic to the ministry.

 There he called his most trusted

 lieutenants to his office and issued orders.

 Bring Admiral Delgado and General Alba to this

 office immediately. Find and arrest Hector Sedano.

 Alejo Vargas stood at the window looking at

 Mono Castle and the sea beyond. Far out from shore he

 could just make out the deep blue of the Gulf Stream,

 which appeared as a thin blue line just under the horizon.

 An overcast layer was moving in from the southeast and a

 breeze was picking up.

 A historic day ... Fidel Castro, the towering

 giant of Cuban history was dead. The end of an

 era, Vargas thought, and the beginning of a new one, one

 he would dominate.

 Despite the timing surprise, Vargas really had

 no choice: he was going to have to go forward with his plan.

 He had concluded a month or so ago that the only

 course open to him upon the death of Castro was to create

 a situation that would induce the Cuban people to rally around

 him. He would need boldness and a fierce resolve

 if he were to have a chance of success, but he was just the

 man to risk everything on one roll of the dice. After

 he personally loaded them.

 Colonel Santana brought an American

 artillery shell to Havana yesterday, one removed

 Nuestra Senora de Coldn.

 The thing was in the basement of the ministry now, under armed

 guard. The Cuban leadership had known for years that

 the Americans had CBW weapons stored at

 Guantanamo. Now the Americans were removing the

 things, but too late! Thanks to El Gato,

 Vargas had one he could show the world. Soon he

 hoped to have a great many more.

  Alejo Vargas took a deep breath, stretched

 mightily, helped himself to a'cigar. He lit it,

 inhaled the smoke, and blew it out through his nose. Then

 he laughed.

  "I want a little house with a garden. Every day food

 to eat. Children. A doctor to make them well when they

 get sick. A man who loves me. Is that so

 much?"

  Dora's mouth was so dry she didn't

 enunciate her words clearly, but Ocho knew what

 she meant. They lay head to head under the awning in the

 shade as the

 Angel del Mar

 pitched and rolled endlessly in the long sea swells.

  Surrounded by a universe of water they couldn't

 drink, the twenty-six humans aboard the boat were

 tortured by thirst and baked by the sun. Many

 had bad sunburns now, raw places where the skin

 had blistered and peeled off, leaving oozing sores.

 The old fisherman dipped buckets of water from the

 sea and poured salt water over the burns. He

 gently poured sea water on the small children, who had

 long ago ceased crying. Perhaps the water would be

 absorbed by their dehydrated tissues. If not, it

 would at least help keep them cool, ease their

 suffering somewhat.

 Near Dora a woman was repeating the Rosary,

 over and over, mumbling it. Now and then another

 woman joined in for a few minutes, then fell

 silent until the spirit moved her again.

 It seemed as if everyone left alive had lost

 someone to the sea that first night. The cries and grief

 were almost more than people could bear when they realized who had

 been lost, and that they were gone forever. Mothers cried,

 daughters were so distraught they shook, the hopelessness

 hit everyone like a hammer. The mother of the captain, who

 saw him dead, shot hi the back, could neither move

 nor speak. As Dora talked, Ocho watched the

 woman, who sat

 now at the foot of the mainmast, holding on to it with one

 hand and a daughter or daughter-in-law with the other.

 Every now and then Ocho sat or stood and

 searched the horizon. Nothing. Not a boat, not land,

 not a ship. Nothing.

 Oh, three airplanes had gone over, two jets

 way up high making contrails and a twin-engine

 plane perhaps two miles up mat had crossed the

 sky straight as a string, without the slightest waver as

 it passed within a half mile

 of Angel del Mar,

 rolling her guts out in die swells.

 To see the airplanes, with their people riding inside,

 safe, full of food and drink, on their way from

 someplace to somewhere else, while we poor

 creatures are trapped here on this miserable boat,

 condemned to die slowly of thirst and exposure...

 Surely the boat would be found soon... by somebody!

 Anybody! How can the Americans not see us?

 How?

 Do they see us and not care?

 Ocho was standing, watching for other ships and listening

 to Dora talk of the house she wanted, with the flowers

 by the door, when he realized that the dark place he

 could see to the west was a rain squall.

 "Rainea"...he whispered.

 "Rain."

 He shouted the word, pointed.

 The squall was upon them before anyone could muster the

 energy to do anything. The people stood with their mourns open

 as raindrops pounded them and soaked their clothes and

 ran off the awning and along the deck, to disappear into the

 scuppers.

 "The awning! Quickly. Make a container from the awning

 to trap the water!"

 Ocho untied one corner with fingers that were all

 thumbs, the old fisherman did another comer, and they

 held the corners up, trapping water.

 They had a few gallons when the rain ceased

 falling.

 Several of the men tried to lean over, drink from the

 awning.

 "No. Children first."

 Ocho managed to catch one man by the back of the neck

 and throw him to the deck.

  "Children first."

  One by one the children were allowed to drink all they could

 hold. Then the women.

  Several of the men got a swallow or two each,

 then the water was gone.

  Ocho sat down, wiped the sweat and water from his

 hair and sucked it from his fingers. The only water he

 had gotten had been from holding his mourn

 open.

  Dora had drunk her fill. Now she lay on

 the deck with her eyes closed.

  Diego Coca had even gotten a swallow.

 He looked about with venomous eyes, then lay down

 beside his daughter.

  "We must rig the awning so that it will catch water

 if die rain comes againea"...Ocho said to the old

 fisherman.

  They worked at it, cut a hole in the low place

 in the canvas and put a five-gallon bucket under

 die hole.

 If it will just rain again,

 Ocho thought, studying the clouds.

 Please God, hear our prayer.

 "Why are you here, on this boat"..."...the old fisherman

 asked Ocho, who stared at him in surprise.

  "Why are you here"..."...the fisherman repeated. "You

 aren't tike us."

  Ocho looked around at his fellow sufferers, unable

 to fathom the old man's meaning.

  "These people are all losersea"...the old man said,

 "including me. We came looking for something we will

 never find. Why are you with us?"

  "It's time for someone to relieve Lopez

 on the pump. I will do it for a while, then you

 relieve me, old man."

  "We are going to die soon, I thinkea"...the old

 man said.

  Ocho hissed, "There are children listening. Watch your

 mouth."

 "When we can pump no more we will swim. Then we will

 die. One by one people will drown, or sharks will come."

 %

 "Look for a shipea"...Ocho said harshly, and went below.

 Sharks! The old windbag, scaring the children like that

 Of course sharks were a possibility. Blood or

 people thrashing about in the water would attract them, or so

 he had always heard. Sharks would rip people apart, pull

 them under.

 He pumped for a bit over twenty minutes, then

 took a break. The water came in fast. After

 five minutes he began pumping again. Another

 twenty-one minutes of vigorous effort was required

 to empty the bilge.

 The water was coming in faster than it did yesterday.

 Pumping the handle manually seemed to require more

 effort too, though he knew he just had less energy.

 Pump, pump, pump, take a brief rest in the

 stinky bilge, then pump again....

 The more tired he grew the more hopeless he felt.

 All of them were doomed. Dora, the baby growing within

 her, the baby that he had put in her womb ...

 It was his fault. If he had been man enough to say

 no, to not surrender to lust, all these people would still be in

 Cuba, they would have a future to look forward to, not

 watery death. All the people who had been swept to their

 death would still be alive.

 Alive!

 He had no idea of the horrible things he was setting

 in motion when he opened her dress, felt the

 ripeness of her body, felt the heat of her.

 The guilt weighed on him, made it hard to breathe.

 He must do what he could to save them all. That was the

 only honorable choice open to him. Save as many as

 possible and maybe God would forgive him.

 Maybe then he could forgive himself....

 And he shouldn't give up hope yet. As he worked

 the pump handle he scolded himself for being so

 negative, for not having faith in God, in His

 plan for the twenty-six human beings still alive on

 Angel del Mar.

 Soon a ship would come. The sailors would see the

 boat and rescue them. Give them cool, clean

 water, all they

 could drink; and food. Let each of them eat their

 fill. Soon it would come. Any minute now.

  He pumped and pumped, sweat burned his eyes and

 dripped from his nose, though not so much as he sweated

 yesterday. He was very dehydrated. The salt had

 built up in his armpits, his groin, and it cut him.

 With his free hand he scratched, which only made the

 burning worse.

 Any minute now a ship will come over the horizon.

 Soon...

 Maximo Sedano took a taxi from the Zurich

 airport to an excellent hotel in the heart of the

 financial district where he had stayed on six or

 eight previous visits. The hotel was old,

 solid, substantial, almost banklike, yet it was

 not the primo hotel. This was the last time he stayed

 here, he told himself. Eduardo Jos6 Lopez would

 stay at the best hotel in town because by God he could

 afford it. And because the staff over there had never seen

 him as Maximo Sedano.

  He would have- to make many adjustments, avoid

 photographs, avoid places where prominent

 Cubans might see him, like the heart of Madrid

 or London or Paris. Of course, if Vargas

 was assassinated in the turmoil following

 Fidel's death, he could relax his vigilance

 somewhat. Vargas was a bloodhound, a humorless

 man with a profound capacity for revenge. Still, if

 Vargas came out on top after the succession struggle

 in Havana, he would have many things on bis mind, and a

 missing ex-finance minister would of necessity be far

 down on the list.

  Maximo would take his chances. He was hi

 Europe, the money was hi the banks just down the

 street, the loud and clear call of destiny was ringing

 hi bis ears.

  He was sipping a drink and thinking about where he

 might go for dinner when he heard a knock on the

 door.

  "Yes?"

  "Delivery."

  "I ordered nothing- There has been a

 mistake."

  "For the Honorable Maximo Sedano."

 Curious, he opened the door.

 The man standing in the hallway was European, with

 thinning hair and bulging muscles and a chiseled chin.

 And he was holding a pistol in his right hand, one

 pointed precisely at Maximo's solar

 plexus.

 The man backed Maximo into the room and closed the

 door.

 "Your passport, please"..."...A German accent.

 "I have little money. Take it and go."

 "Sit."...He gestured toward a chair by the bed with his

 pistol. Maximo obeyed, thankfully. His knees

 were turning to jelly and he had a powerful urge

 to urinate.

 "Now the passport."

 Maximo took the diplomatic passport from his

 inside pocket and passed it 'acr. Taking care

 to keep the pistol well away from Maximo and still

 pointed at his middle, the man reached for the passport

 with his left hand.

 He glanced at the photo and name, grinned, and

 tossed the passport on the bed. The man took a

 seat.

 "You look white as a sheet, man. Are you going

 to pass out?"

 He felt dizzy, light-headed. He put his hand

 to his forehead, which felt clammy.

 "Loosen your tieea"...the German ordered,

 "unbutton your collar button, then put your head

 between your knees."

 Maximo obeyed.

 "Don't breathe so fast. Get a grip on yourself.

 If you aren't careful you'll hyperventilate and

 pass out."

 Maximo concentrated on breathing slowly. After a

 few seconds he felt better. Finally he

 straightened up. The pistol was nowhere in sight.

 "Vargas said you were a jellyfish."...The German

 shook his head sadly.

 "Do you work for him"..."...He was shocked at the sound of his

 own voice, the pitch of which was surprisingly high.

 "I do errands from time to timeea"...the German replied.

 "He pays well and the work is congenial."

 "What do you want?"

  "Vargas wanted me to remind you that you were sent to do

 an errand. You are to transfer the money to the proper

 accounts tomorrow and return to Cuba. If you do not, I

 am to kill you."

  The German smiled warmly. "I will do it too.

 There is a side of my personality that I am not

 proud of, that I do not like to admit, but it is only

 fair that I should tell you the truth: I like to kill

 people. I enjoy it. I don't just shoot them, bang,

 bang, bang. I see how long I can keep them

 alive, how much I can make them suffer. I own a

 quiet little place, out of the way,

 isolated. It is perfect for my needs."

  The German's eyes narrowed speculatively.

 "You seem a miserable specimen, but I like a

 challenge. I think with a little prior planning I could

 probably make you scream for at least forty-eight

 hours before you died."

  Maximo's heart was hammering in his ears, thudding

 along like a race horse's hooves.

  The German picked up the telephone, told the

 operator he wished to place a call to Havana.

 He gave her the number.

  One minute passed, then, another.

  "Rail here. For Vargas."

  After a few seconds, Rail spoke again.

 "Buenos diets, senor.

 I have" given him your message."

  The German listened for a few more seconds, then

 passed the telephone to Maximo.

  The Cuban minister of finance managed to make a

 noise, and heard the voice of Alejo Vargas:

 "The money must arrive tomorrow, Maximo. You understand?"

 "Your thug has threatened me."

 "I hope Senor Rail has made the situation

 clear. It would be a tragedy for you to die because you did

 not understand your duty."

 The line went dead before Maximo could answer. He

 sat with the instrument in his hand, trying to keep control of

 his stomach. Rail gestured, so he handed the phone

 to him.

 The German listened to make sure the connection had

 been severed, then placed the instrument back in its

 cradle. He stood.

 "I don't know what else to say. You understand the

 situation. Your destiny is in your hands."

 With that the German went to the door, opened it and

 passed through, then pulled the door shut behind him

 until it latched.

 Maximo ran to the bathroom and vomited in the

 commode.

 William Henry Chance was lying on the bed in his

 hotel room reading a magazine when he heard the

 knock on the door. He opened it to find Tommy

 Carmellini standing there.

 "Hey, bossea"...Carmellini said. "Let's take

 a walk."

 "Give me a moment to put on my shoes."

 Chance did so, pulled on a light sportscoat,

 and locked the door behind him on the way out.

 Neither man spoke as they rode the elevator

 downstairs. Out on the sidewalk they

 automatically checked for a tail. No one

 obviously following, but that meant little. If the

 Cubans had burned them as CIA, they could have

 watchers hi every building, be filming every move, every

 gesture, every movement of the lips.

 So neither man said anything.

 Carmellini directed then- steps toward one of the

 larger casinos on the Malecon. Latin'music

 engulfed them as they walked into the building. The

 place reminded Chance of Atlantic City,

 complete with crowds of gray-haired retirees

 buying a good time, mostly Americans, Germans,

 English, and Spaniards. No Cubans were

 gambling, of course, just foreigners who had hard

 currency to wager.

 The only Cubans not behind the tables were

 prostitutes,

 young, gorgeous, and dressed in the latest European

 fashions. At this hour of the evening the cigar smoke

 was thick, the liquor flowing, and the laughter and music

 loud.

 The two men drifted around the casino, taking their

 time, checking to see who was watching them, then finally

 sifted out of the building through a side door. At the

 basement loading dock a man was

 inventorying supplies in a telephone repaur

 van. Chance and Carmellini climbed in, the man

 closed the door, and the van rolled.

 "Vargas is having a powwow in his

 officeea"...Carmellini reported. "It sounds as if

 Castro is dead."

 "Nobody lives foreverea"...Chance said lightly. "Not

 even dictators."

 "That isn't the half of it. They're talking about

 biological weapons again."

 "Bingoea"...Chance said, a touch of satisfaction

 creeping into his voice.

 "Yeah. Vargas says there is a warehouse full

 of biological warheads at Gitmo."

 It took a whole lot to surprise William

 Henry Chance. He gaped.

 "Not only thatea"...Carmellini continued, "he has one

 of the things. He's going to show it to the Cuban people,

 prove to the world what perfidious bastards the

 Americans are."

 "He's got an American CBW warhead?"

 "You'll have to listen to the tape. Sounded to the

 technician like the thing was stolen from a ship."

 "Biological warheads at Guantanamo Bay?

 That's gotta be wrong! Have these guys been

 smoking something?"

 "I think Vargas and his pals have gone off the deep

 end. Either that or they plan to plant some

 biological agents in Guantanamo after they

 crash through the fence."

 "Maybe they know we're listening to themea"...Chance said.

 "Maybe this whole thing is a hoax."

 "Could beea"...Tommy Carmellini agreed, but

 to judge by his tone of voice, he didn't think

 so.

 Maximo Sedano was committed. He couldn't

 transfer the money to Cuban government accounts in

 Havana because the transfer cards contained the wrong

 account numbers. Changing the numbers was out of the question:

 any alteration to the cards would be instantly spotted and

 cause the Swiss bankers to suspect forgery.

 Maximo carefully arranged the combination locks on

 his attache case and opened it At the bottom was a

 pistol, a very nice little Walther in 7.35 mm. The

 magazine was full, but there was no round in the chamber.

 Maximo chambered a round and engaged the safety.

 He put the pistol in his right-hand trouser pocket and

 looked at himself in the mirror.

 He put his hand in his pocket and wrapped his fingers

 around the butt of the weapon.

 He had to go to the banks tomorrow, act like a bureaucrat

 shuffling money for his government while they shoveled

 $53 million plus interest into his personal

 accounts. Well, if he could kill the German and

 get away with it, he sure as hell could keep his

 cool while the Swiss bankers made him rich.

 Could he kill Rail?

 How badly did he want to be rich?

 He stood at the window looking at the Limmat

 River a block from the hotel, and beyond it, the vast

 expanse of Lake Zurich. Beyond the lake

 half-hidden in the hare were the peaks of the Alps, still

 white with last winter's snow.

 He certainly didn't want to go back to Cuba.

 A drink of scotch whiskey from the minibar helped

 settle his nerves.

 An hour later he left the hotel. He turned

 left, crossed the Limmat River on the nearest

 bridge, and headed for the main thoroughfare. Perhaps an

 hour of daylight left, but not more. He didn't

 look around him, sure that Rail was somewhere near.

 He took his time strolling along, pretending to enjoy

 the early summer day and the ebb and flow of the

 crowd, many of whom were young people on school holiday.

  Finally he turned into an old

 cobblestoned street too narrow for vehicles and

 walked up it toward the hill which loomed above the

 downtown area. Medieval buildings rose up on

 either side and seemed to lean in, making the street

 seem even narrower and more confining than it really was as the

 daylight faded from the sky.

  He found the restaurant he remembered and went

 inside. Yes, it was as he recalled, with the tables and

 chairs just so, the kitchen beyond, and past the kitchen, the

 rest room. One with an old tank mounted high in the

 wall with a pull chain.

  How long had it been?

  Two years, at least.

  The waiter was new, didn't seem to recognize

 him. Not that he should, but it might be inconvenient if

 he should later recall seeing Sedano here this evening.

  Maximo sat with his back against the wall, so that

 he could see both the front doorway and the door to the

 kitchen.

  He ordered an Italian red wine, something

 robust, while he studied the menu.

  The truth was Maximo was so nervous that he

 didn't think he could eat anything. The automatic

 felt heavy on his thigh, its weight an ominous

 presence that he couldn't ignore.

  He tried to slow his breathing, make his pulse

 stop racing.

  He used his handkerchief to wipe his hands, his

 face. He was used to the heat of Cuba; he should not

 be perspiring like this!

 Get a grip, Maximoif you cannot control yourself you

 will soon be dead. Or a subject for that pervert's

 experiments.

 He wondered if Rail had told the truth about

 torturing people.

  lust thinking about that subject and the way the bastard

 told him about itwith obvious relishmake his forehead

 break out in a sweat. He swabbed with the handkerchief

 again.

 There were two couples and another single man in the

 restaurant. Only one waiter shuttled back and

 forth through the kitchen dbor.

 Maximo moved to a different seat at the same table

 so mat he could see through the kitchen door. Yes,

 now when the waiter came through the door he could see

 most of the length of the narrow kitchen. The chef was moving

 back and forth, working on something in a pot, checking the

 oven, taking things from a refrigerator....

 "More wine?"

 The waiter was there, holding the bottle.

 "If you please."

 As the waiter poured, Maximo murmured, "Have you

 a rest room?"

 "Yes, of course. Through the kitchen, on the left in

 back."

 "I do not wish to disturb the chef."

 "Do not stand on ceremony, sir."

 He waited, sipping the wine, trying not to stare through the

 kitchen door. When the waiter returned he

 ordered, something, the first thing he saw on the menu.

 One of the two couples left, the second finished

 their dinner and ordered coffee, the other man's meal

 came at about the same time as Maximo's. .

 He was just starting on the main course when the chef

 came to the door, wiped his hands on a towel, and said

 something to the waiter. Then he stepped outside into the'

 narrow street and lit a cigarette. Night had

 fallen.

 Maximo got up and headed for the rest room.

 As the kitchen door closed behind him, he looked for the

 drawer or shelf that held the tools.

 Quickly now ...

 He opened one drawer... the wrong one.

 Next drawer, forks, knives and spoons.

 Next drawer...

 yes!

 He saw what he wanted, and quick as a thought reached,

 palmed it, and strode for die rest room.

  Ten minutes passed before he was ready for the dining

 room again. The chef was back at his pots and pans.

 He nodded as Maximo walked by.

  Maximo resumed his seat, took his time, stirred

 the food around on his plate but could eat nothing more.

 He took a few more sips of wine, then ordered

 coffee.

  He was just reaching for the bill at the end of the meal when

 Rail dropped into a seat at his table.

  "I should have come in earlier, let you-buy me a

 meal."

  "Get out."

  "Oh, don't be impolite. I wish to talk

 to you awhile, to learn what you do for the Cuban

 government."

  "If you wish to know can I pay more than Vargas,

 the answer is probably no. I am just a civil

 servant. I suggest you take up the question with

 Vargas."

  Maximo took enough money from his wallet to pay for the

 meal and a tip and dropped it into the tray on top of the

 tab.

  "I have a diplomatic passport. If you do not

 leave I will have the waiter call the police."

  "And have me arrested?"

  "Something like mat"

  Rail stared into Maximo's eyes. "I don't

 think you appreciate your position."

  "Perhaps. Have you properly evaluated yours?"

  "A roaring mouse."...Rail pushed himself away from the

 table, rose, and walked out the front door.

  Maximo lingered, considering.

  He left the restaurant a half hour later,

 his right hand in his pocket around the butt of the pistol.

 He looked neither right nor left, walked

 purposely along the thoroughfares. He crossed the

 Limmat River and walked toward the main train

 station, which was well lit and still crowded with vacationing

 students laden with backpacks. The students sat

 around in circles, sharing cigarettes and talking

 animatedly as they waited for their trains.

 Maximo Sedano had no doubt that Rail was a

 killer. He didn't know anything about the man

 except what he had said, but he knew Alejo

 Vargas. Vargas was just die man to order a

 killing, or to do it himself. The list of Castro's

 enemies who had disappeared through the years was

 long enough to convince anyone that Vargas's enmity was not

 good for one's health.

 Maximo could hear footsteps behind him as he walked

 through the train station.

 A few students looked up at him, glanced behind

 him "at whoever was following....

 That had to be Rail.

 What if it were someone else? What

 if

 Rail were not alone?

 If there were two men, he was doomed. He

 was'betting everything that there was only one man, one

 man who thought him an incompetent coward.

 Well, he was a coward. He had never had to live

 by his wits, face physical danger. He was

 frightened and no doubt it showed. He was perspiring

 freely, his temples pounding, his breath coming in

 short, quick gasps.

 He entered a long, dingy hallway, following the

 signs toward the men's room. The hall was empty.

 He could hear the footsteps coining behind, a steady

 pace, not rushed. The man behind was making no

 attempt to walk softly. He was confident, in

 complete control, die exact opposite of the way

 Maximo Sedano felt.

 He fought the urge to run, to look over his shoulder

 to see precisely who was back there following him.

 Time seemed to move ever so slowly. He was aware of

 everything, the noise, the people, the dirty floor and

 faded paint, and the smell of stale urine and feces

 wafting through the door of the men's room as he entered.

 No one in the room. The stalls, empty.

 Maximo walked to the back wall, turned, and

 faced die

 door. He kept his hand in bis pocket. He

 grasped the butt of the pistol tightly, his finger

 wrapped around the trigger.

  Rail walked into die room, stopped facing him.

  "Well, well. We meet again."

  Maximo said nothing. He swallowed three or

 four times.

  "Are you going somewhere on the train? Am I

 delaying your departure?"'

  Maximo bit bis tongue.

  "What do you have in your pocket, little man?"

  He tilted the barrel of the pistol up, so mat it

 made a bulge hi bis trousers.

  Rail grinned. The naked bulb on the ceiling

 put the lower half of his face hi shadow and made his

 grin look like a death's-head grimace.

  The German reached into his jacket and pulled out

 his pistol. He leveled it at Maximo.

  "If you are going to shoot me, little man, go ahead

 and do it."

  Sweat stung Maximo's eyes. He shook his

 head to clear the sweat.

  Rail advanced several paces, moving slowly.

  "Take your hand out of your pocket."

  Now the German leveled his pistol. Pointed it

 right at Maximo's face. "I will shoot you with great

 pleasure unless you do as I say."

  "Everyone will hearea"...Maximo squeaked, and withdrew

 his hand from his pocket. Automatically he raised

 both hands to shoulder height.

  Rail kept advancing. When he passed under the

 lightbulb his eye sockets became dark shadows and

 Maximo couldn't see where he was looking.

 Rail came up to him, slapped bun with his left

 hand, then felt Maximo's right trouser pocket.

 At this distance Maximo could see Rail's eyes.

 His hands were together above his head.

 "A gunff"...the German said with a hint of surprise in

 his voice.

 He reached for it, put his left hand into Maximo's

 pocket to draw it out.

 As he did so he glanced downward.

 With his right hand Maximo pulled the handle of the ice

 pick loose from the strap of his wristwatch and drew

 it out of his sleeve. With one smooth, quick, savage

 swinging motion he jabbed the pick into the side Of

 Rail's head clear up to the handle.

 Rail collapsed on the floor. Maximo kept

 his grip on the handle of the ice pick", so the shiny

 round blade slipped out of the tiny wound, which was about an

 inch above Rail's left ear.

 Maximo bent down, retrieved his pistol.

 Rail's pistol was still in his hand, held loosely

 by his flaccid ringers.

 There was almost no blood on the side of Rail's

 head.

 Rail tried to focus his eyes. His body

 straightened somewhat; one hand tightened on the pistol

 in an uncontrolled reflex, then relaxed.

 The German groaned. Muscle spasms racked his

 body.

 Maximo took a deep breath and exhaled

 explosively. He wiped at the perspiration

 dripping from his face. His shirt was a sodden mess.

 Squaring his shoulders, he walked out of the men's room

 without another glance at the man sprawled

 on the floor. As he walked down the hallway

 toward the main waiting room he passed two male

 students carrying backpacks, but he purposefully

 avoided eye contact and they didn't seem to pay

 him any attention.

 He walked at a steady, sedate pace through the

 terminal and out into the night.

  William Henry Chance sat in the back of the

 van listening to the tape of Vargas's conversation with his

 generals. Normally the fidelity of this system was

 acceptable. Every now and then a word or phrase was

 garbled or inaudible, the same drawback that affected

 every listening technology. People mumbled or talked at

 the same time or turned their heads the wrong way or

 talked while smoking. Still, this evening he was only

 catching occasional words.

  Chance strained his ears. Phrases, occasionally a

 plain word, lots of garbled noise...

  "Is mis the best we can do?"

  "The sky was overcast, the window was in shadow with the

 evening coming on."

  "What about the laser?"

  If the crystals were illuminated with a laser beam

 in the nonvisible portion of the spectrum, the

 vibrations could be read with the large

 magnification spotting scope at the usual distance.

 The problem was getting the laser close enough to the

 crystals. Maximum range for the laser was less

 man one hundred meters, so the van with the laser had

 to be parked literally in front of the building.

  "We didn't want to take me risk without your

 permission."

  Ah, yes, risk. This equipment had been brought

 into Cuba by boat. The four techniciansof

 Mexican or Cuban descenthad arrived the same

 Way.

  Miguelito was from south Texas, the son of

 migrant laborers. He didn't learn English

 until he was in his late

 teens. He had recorded the conversations, listened to the

 audio as the computer processed it "What did you

 think, Miguelito"..."...Chance asked. Chance's

 Spanish was excellent, the result of months of

 intense training, but he would never have a native

 speaker's ear for the language.

 Miguelito took his time answering. "It is

 difficult to say. I hear phrases, pieces of

 sentences, stray words... and my mind puts it all

 together into something mat may not have been mere when they said

 it. You understand?"

 Chance nodded.

 "What I hear is a conversation about biological

 weapons in Guantanamo Bay."

 "You mean using biological weapons against

 Guantdnamo Bay?"

 "That is possible. But my impression was that the

 weapons were already mere."

 "Castro. Did they talk about Castro?"

 "His name was mentioned. It is distinctive. I mink

 I heard it"

 "Is he still alive?"

 "I do not know."...Miguelito looked apologetic.

 "Biological weapons inside the U.s.

 faculty is impossible. They must be intending to use

 them against the people mere."

 Miguelito said nothing.

 "I'd better listenea"...Chance said.

 "I will play for you the best partea"...Miguelito said.

 "Give me a few moments."...He played with the

 equipment. After about a minute he announced he was

 ready with a nod of his head. Chance and Carmellini

 donned headsets.

 Noise. They heard noise, occasionally garbled

 voices, but mostly computer-generated noise as the

 machine tried without success to make sense

 of the nickering light coming through the high-magnification

 spotting scope. Every now and then a word or two hi

 Spanish. "Guantanamo... attack..."...Once

 Chance was sure he heard the word

 "biological,"" but even then, he wasn't

 certain.

 Finally he removed his headset.

  Miguelito did likewise.

  "Perhaps they are talking about possible targets when

 and ifea"...Carmellini suggested. "After all, they can

 spray this stuff into the air from a truck upwind and

 kill everyone on the base."

  Chance grimaced. What he had here was

 absolutely nothing. He was going to need something more

 definite before he started talking to Washington via the

 satellite.

  "They did a lot of talking about political

 matters, people and districts, whom they supported and so

 onea"...Miguelito said, "It is not much better than

 what you have just heard they talked of this before the sun went

 downbut I got the impression that Vargas wanted

 Delgado and Alba to abandon any commitments they

 had to Raul Castro or the Sedanos and throw in with

 him."

  "Hmmmea"...sd William Henry Chance. He

 tried to focus on Miguelito's comments and couldn't

 Biological weapons were on his mind.

  He recalled Vargas's face, remembered how

 he had looked as Chance had sat there discussing a

 CubanAmerican cigarette company. The strong,

 fleshy face had been a mask, revealing nothing of

 its owner's thoughts. That poker face... that was his

 dominant impression of Vargas.

  The man certainly had a reputation: he was

 ruthless efficiency incarnate, a thug who smashed

 heads and sliced throats and got answers from people who

 didn't want to talk. Every dictatorship needed a

 few sociopaths-in high places. He was also

 subtle and smooth when that was required. Nor had

 he yet surrendered to his appetites, surrendered

 to the absolute corruption that absolute power

 inevitably causes. Not yet, anyway.

  Yes, Alejo Vargas was a damned dangerous

 man, one who apparently possessed the brains and

 managerial skills necessary to produce biological

 weapons and the brutality to use them.

 El Gato may have shipped the Cubans material

 that they could use to culture bacteria or viruses,

 but as yet there was no hard evidence that the

 Cubans had done so.

 That tantalizing word, "biological."...Why would the

 interior minister and the head of the Cuban Army and

 Navy use that word if they weren't talking about

 weapons? Sure as hell they weren't talking about

 barracks sanitation or the condition of the mess

 halls.

 If there was a biological weapons program,

 Chance told himself, the evidence would be inside the

 ministry, the headquarters of the secret police.

 There must be paper, records, orders, letterssomething!

 No one could run a serious project like that without

 paper, not even Vargas.

 The evidence

 is

 inside that building,

 he told himself.

 After Fidel died of poison she had handed bun,

 Mercedes was locked in her bedroom by Vargas and

 Santana. Which was just as well.

 She pulled a blanket over herself and curled up

 on the bed hi the fetal position. The silence and

 afternoon gloom were comforting.

 Amazingly, no tears came. Fidel had been

 dying for months, she was relieved that he had

 finally come to the end of the journey, the end of the pain.

 hi the stillness she listened to the sound of her breathing,

 the sound of her heart pumping blood through her ears,

 listened to an insect buzzing somewhere, listened to the

 distant muted thump of footfalls and doors

 closing, people engaged in the endless business of living.

 She saw a gecko, high on the wall, quite motionless

 except for his sides, which moved hi and out, just enough to be

 seen hi the dun light coming in through the window drapes.

 He seemed to be watching her. More likely he was

 waiting for a fly, as he did somewhere every day, as his

 ancestors had done since the dawn of time, as his

 progeny would do until the sun flamed up and burned

 the earth to a cinder. Then, they say, the sun would

 burn out altogether

 and the earth, if it still existed, would wander the universe

 forever, a cold, lifeless rock, spinning aimlessly.

 Until then geckos clung to walls and God

 provided flies. Amazing how that worked.

  She wondered about Hector, wondered if he would

 be found and arrested, or murdered and shoveled into an

 anonymous grave. God knows she had done everything

 possible to warn him. Perhaps the man didn't want

 to be warned: perhaps he knew the task before him was

 impossible. Perhaps he really believed all

 that Jesuit bullshit and hi truth didn't care

 if he lived or died. Most likely that was it.

  The truth was that the more you knew of life, of the

 compromises one must make to get from day to day, the more

 you realized the futility of it all. None of it

 meant anything.

  Man lived, man died, governments rose and

 fell, justice was done or denied, venality was

 crushed or triumphant; in the long run none of it

 mattered a damn. The world spun on around the sun,

 life continued to be lived....

  When we perish from human memories we are no

 more. We are well and truly gone, as if we had

 never been.

  She threw aside the cover and sat up in bed,

 hugging her knees. She thought again of Fidel, and

 finally let him go. She-then had only the twilight,

 the room falling into darkness.

  Toad Tarkington was waiting for Jake

 Grafton beside the V-22 Osprey on the flight

 deck of

 United States.

 The Osprey was a unique airplane, wim a

 turbo-prop engine mounted on the end of each wing.

 Just now the pilot had the engines tilted

 straight up so that the 38-foot props on each

 engine would function as helicopter rotor blades.

 The machine could lift off vertically like a

 heticopter or make a short, running takeoff.

 Once airborne the pilot would gradually

 transition to forward flight by tilting the engines down

 into a horizontal position. Then the giant props

 would function as conventional propellers, though

 very large ones. The machine could also land vertically or

 run on to a short landing area. A cross between a

 large twin-rotor helicopter and a turbo-prop

 transport, the extraordinarily versatile

 Osprey had enormous lifting ability and

 250-knot cruise speed, capabilities

 exceeding those of any conventional helicopter.

  Jake Grafton stood looking at, the plane

 for a few seconds as it sat on the flight deck.

 With its engines mounted on the very ends of its wingsa

 position dictated by the size of the rotor bladesthe

 machine could not stay airborne if one of the rotor

 transmissions failed. It could fly on one engine,

 however, if the drive shaft Unking the good engine to the

 transmission of the distant rotor blade remained

 intact.

  The Osprey's extremely complicated

 systems were made even more so by the requirement that the

 wings and rotors fold into a tight package so that the

 plane could be stored aboard ship. The transitions

 between hovering and wingborne flight were only possible

 because computers assisted the pilots in flying the

 plane. Complex controls, complex systemsJake

 thought the machine a flying tribute to the ingenuity of the

 human species.

  The evening looked gorgeous. The sky was clearing,

 visibility decent. The late afternoon sun shone on

 a breezy, tumbling sea. Jake took a deep

 bream and climbed into the plane.

 He put on a regular headset so that he could

 talk to the flight crew.

  ""Lo, Admiral."

 "Hello, Rita. How are you?"

 "Ready to rock and roll, sir. Let me know when

 you're strapped in."

 "I'm ready."...Jake settled back and watched

 Toad and the crewman strap in.

 Lightly loaded, the Osprey almost leaped from the

 flight deck into the stiff sea wind, which was coming

 straight down the deck. Rita wasted no time

 rotating the engines

 forward to a horizontal position; the

 craft accelerated quickly as the giant rotors

 became propellers and the wings took the craft's

 weight.

  An hour later Rita Moravia landed the

 Osprey vertically on a pier at Guantanamo

 between two light poles. The sun was down by then and the

 area was lit by flood lights.

  A marine lieutenant colonel stood waiting.

 He had the usual close-cropped hair, a deep

 tan, the requisite square jaw, and he looked as

 if he spent several hours a day lifting weights.

  As they walked toward him Toad muttered, just

 loud enough for Jake to hear, "Another refugee from the

 Mr. Universe contest. If you can't make it in

 bodybuilding, mere's always the marines."

  "Can it, Toad."

  The lieutenant colonel saluted smartly.

 "I am deploying a company around the warehouse,

 Admiral. We're taking up positions now."

  "Excellentea"...Jake Grafton said. "I

 brought an aerial photo mat was taken this

 afternoon"...Toad took it from a folder and passed it

 over"...if you would show me where you are placing your people?""

  "Yes, sir."...Lieutenant Colonel

 Eckhardt, the landing team commander, used the

 photo and a finger to show where he would put his company.

 He finished with the comment, "My plan is to channel

 any intruders into these two open areas formed by these

 streets, then kill them there."

  "What are your alternatives?"

  They discussed them, and the fact that Eckhardt

 planned to divide one platoon between several empty

 warehouses and use them as reserves. "I think this will

 be a very realistic exercise, sirea"...the colonel

 finished. "1 have even had ammunition issued to the

 men, although of course they have been instructed to keep

 their weapons empty."

  "Colonel Eckhardt, this is not an

 exercise."

  "Sir?"

 "That warehouse, warehouse nine, contains CBW

 warheads. They are being loaded aboard this freighter

 and die one that left the other day for transport

 back to die states, where they are supposed to be

 destroyed. The first ship that left carrying the damned

 things has disappeared. We're hunting for it now. I

 don't know just what in hell is going on, so I'm

 putting your outfit here just in case."

 "What is the threat, sir?"

 "I don't know."

 Jake could see Eckhardt was working hard to keep his

 face under control.

 "If the Cubans or anybody else comes over,

 under, around, or through the perimeter fence, start

 shooting."

 "Yes, sirea"...Eckhardt said.

 "Have your people load their weapons, Colonel. They will

 defend themselves and this building. No warning

 shotsshoot to kill."

 "If we are assaulted, sir, how much warning would

 you expect us to have?"

 "I don't know. Maybe days, maybe hours,

 maybe no warning at all."

 "The more warning I have, sir, the fewer lives I am

 likely to lose."

 "I will pass that on to Washington, Colonel. When

 I know something is up, you'll hear about it seconds

 later. That's the best I can do."

 "Yes, sir."

 "Just so we're on the same sheet of music,

 Colonel, I want that warehouse defended until

 you are relieved or the very last marine is dead."

 Eckhardt said nothing this time. Toad Tarkington's

 grim expression softened. Eckhardt could have said

 something like, "Marines don't surrenderea"...or

 some other bullshit, but he didn't. Toad was

 taking a liking to the lieutenant colonel.

 "Anything you need from meea"...Jake Grafton

 continued, "just ask. The battle group and the base

 commander will

 His

 supply you to the extent of our resources. The

 cruiser will provide artillery supportI want

 you to interface with the cruiser people in the next hour or

 two, make sure you're ready to communicate and

 shoot."

 "Yes, sir."

 "Which brings up a point: I see that your people are

 building bunkers from sandbags."

 "Yes, sir. We're trying to fortify some

 positions, create some strongpoints."

 "Get a couple of backhoes from the base people, get

 someone to locate the utilities, and dig

 fortifications. Jackhammer the concrete. By dawn

 I want your people dug in to the eyes."...This order might

 be stretching the phrase "business as usualea"...b

 comJake wasn't worried. Freighters carrying

 weapons don't normally turn up missing.

 "Yessir."

 "What are you going to do if the Cubans

 send tanks through the fence?"

 "Then- tanks are old Soviet T-54's, I

 believeea"...Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt said.

 "We'll channel them into these two avenuesea"...he

 pointed at the aerial photo, "then kill them

 cremate the crews inside the tanks."

 "Okay. When your people are dug in, dig any tank

 traps that you want. You have carte blanche,

 Colonel."

 "Nobody is going into that warehouse, sir."

 "Fine. We'll keep the Cuban Navy off your

 back and give you air support. The cruisers will

 provide artillery. Call us if you see or hear

 anything suspicious."

 Toad passed the colonel a list of radio

 frequencies and they discussed communications for several

 minutes.

 Jake took that opportunity to wander off, to look

 at the warehouse from all angles.

 He was standing beside six large forklifts that were parked

 near the main loading dock when Toad and Eckhardt

 walked over to him. "Don't isolate these

 forklifts from the pier when you're digging up

 concreteea"...Jake advised.

 "Of course not."

 "One other thingea"...Jake said. "You'd better break

 out the MOPP suits and have them beside every man."

 MOPP stood for mission-oriented protective

 posture, a term designed by career bureaucrats

 to obfuscate the true nature of chemical and

 biological warfare protection suits.

 The colonel was going to say something about the suits,

 then he decided to pass on it.

 They talked for several minutes about the

 battalion's problems, how the colonel was

 deploying it. The colonel told Jake he was

 putting people on the roofs of all the warehouses.

 As Jake and Toad walked back to the Osprey,

 Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt turned toward

 warehouse nine and "scratched his head. He didn't

 for a minute believe that building contained chemical and

 biological weapons.

 He frowned. A hijacked freighter? He had

 been hi the Corps long enough to know how the navy

 operated: this was just another readiness exercise but the

 admiral didn't have the courtesy or decency

 to say so. "Let's keep the grunts" assholes

 twanging tight."...MOPP suits, hi the heat of the

 Cuban summer!

 Yeah.

 "Cuba must learn to live with the

 elephantea"...Hector Sedano told the crowd of

 schoolteachers and administrators. "Our relations

 with the United States have been the determining factor

 in our history and will be the key to our future. Any

 Cuban government that hopes to make Me better

 for the people of Cuba must come to grips with the reality of the

 colossus ninety miles north."

 That was the nub of his message, pure and simple.

 He was careful never to criticize Fidel Castro

 or the government, knowing full well that to do so would be

 the height of folly, an invitation to a prison

 cell. Most of the people in this room were teachers, a few

 were agents for the secret

 police. Cuba was a dictatorship, a fact as

 unremarkable as the island status of the nation.

 Still, he was talking about the future, about a day still

 to come when all things might change, a day that Cuba

 would have to face someday, sometime. Everyone hi the room

 understood that too, including the secret police, so

 no one objected to his remarks. Hector

 Sedano talked on, talking about education, jobs,

 investment, opportunities, the building blocks

 of the life sagas of human beings.

 When he finished he sat down as the thunder of

 applause rolled over him. He thought that his

 audience's reaction was not to his message, which in

 truth was not that new or fresh or interesting, but to the

 fact that he was a private citizen speaking aloud

 on sensitive political subjects. This his

 audience found most remarkable. They stood on their

 feet, applauded, pressed forward to touch bun,

 to give him a greeting or blessing, reached between people

 to touch bis clothes, his hands, his hair.

 Afterward he sat and spoke privately to a knot of

 people who wanted to be with him when that someday came. He

 was more open, spoke about specifics but still spoke

 guardedly, careful not to speak openly against the

 government or to criticize Fidel.

 In his heart of hearts Hector Sedano knew that

 Fidel Castro must know what he had to say, must

 know his message almost as diswell as he himself did.

 Everything that the government knew, Fidel knew, for

 he was the government.

 And still Fidel let him speak. That was the remarkable

 thing, and Hector had a theory about why this might be

 so. When he was a young revolutionary in jail,

 Fidel had written a political tract hi

 defense of the Cuban revolution that became

 its manifesto. He entitled it, "History Will

 Absolve Me."...In it he defined "the p"...z "the

 vast unredeemed masses, those to whom everyone

 makes promises and who are deceived by all."

 Maybe, Hector thought, Fidel Castro was still

 looking for absolution from those who would come after.

 Maybe

 caret

 STEPHEN COONTS

 he was thinking about "the p"...even now, thinking of the

 promises he had made and the reality that had come

 to pass.

 When he was leaving the school, on the way to the

 borrowed car with two friends who accompanied him,

 Hector found himself surrounded by well-dressed men,

 obviously not local laborers.

 "Hector Sedanoea"...sd one, "you are under arrest.

 You must come with us."

 He was stunned. "What am I charged with"..."...he

 demanded.

 . "That is not for us to discussea"...the man said, and took

 his elbow. He pushed him toward a government van.

 "They are arresting Sedanoea"...someone shouted. The shout

 was taken up by others. As a crowd gathered,

 shoved closer, shouting threats and obscenities, the

 men around the van pushed Hector into it and jumped in

 themselves. In seconds it was in motion.

 Hector protested. He had done nothing wrong,

 he was not wanted for any crime.

 The man showed him a badge. "You are under

 arrestea"...he said. "We have our orders. Now be

 silent."

 The van raced through the streets of the city, then took

 the highway toward Havana.

 Maximo Sedano was too excited to sleep. The

 adrenaline aftershock of stabbing an ice pick

 into Vargas's thug should have floored him, but the thought of

 $53 million, plus interest, kept him wide

 awake. That and the possibility of sirens.

 He lay in the darkness listening. Every now and then he

 heard a siren moaning, faint and far away. He

 waited in dread suspense for that moan to join others

 and become a wailing convoy of police vehicles

 converging on his hotel, followed by the stamping of a

 hoard of policemen charging upstairs to arrest him.

 He twitched with every howl in the night, though they were

 few and faint and never seemed to

 CUBA

 MF-

 grow louder. In the silence between moans he amused

 himself by trying to calculate the amount of interest that

 might be due on Castro's hoard.

 He hadn't seen a statement in about six months

 ... call it six months exactly, half a

 year. Interest at 2.45 percent, on $53

 million ... almost 650,000 American

 dollars.

 Ha! The interest alone would buy a nice small

 villa on Ibiza. Of course he should not rule out

 Majorca, nor Minorca for that matter, until

 he had traveled over each of the islands and seen

 local conditions for himself, and checked the real estate

 market. No, indeed. He would visit all the

 Balearic Islands in turn, including Formentera and

 Cabrera, stay at local urns, drink local

 wine, eat lamb and beef and fish prepared as the

 islanders preferred ...

 Ahh, his dream was within Ms grasp. Tomorrow. In just a

 few short hours. When the banks opened he would go

 immediately to the one with the largest account, submit the

 transfer card, men to the next one, and finally, the one

 with the smallest amount on deposit, a mere $11

 million.

  Maximo paced the room, stared out the

 window at the lights of the city that housed his fortune,

 paced some more.

  He was full almost to bursting, too excited

 to sleep.

  He had almost run back to the hotel from the

 railroad station. He had taken his time though,

 walked slowly and unhurriedly, paused to feed the

 ducks under one of the Limmat bridges, slipped the

 ice pick into the river when no one was watching, then

 walked on to the hotel so full of joy and happiness

 he could barely contain himself.

  At about four hi the morning he began to wind down

 somewhat, so he lay down on the bed. In minutes

 he was asleep.

 When Maximo awoke the sun was up, he could hear

 a maid running a vacuum sweeper in the next

 room.

 He checked his watch. Almost eight-thirty.

 He showered, shaved, put on clean clothes from the

 skin out, then packed his bags. He would come back

 to the hotel this afternoon diswhen he had finished his banking and

 check

 out. He wanted to be long gone if Santana showed

 up looking for Rail and the money.

 There was a continental breakfast laid out in

 the hotel dining room, so Maximo paused there for

 coffee and a French roll.

 Suitably fortified, with his attach caret case in

 bis left hand and the transfer cards signed

 by Fidel in his inside breast pocket, Maximo

 Sedano set off afoot for the bank that was to be bis

 first stop. It was a mere two blocks away, a

 huge old building of thick stone walls and small

 windows, a building hundreds of years old with the

 treasure of the ages in its vaults.

 Me spoke to a clerk, was ushered into a small

 windowless office to see a middle-aged man who

 wore a green eyeshade and spoke tolerably good

 Spanish. Maximo surrendered the appropriate

 transfer card and settled down to wait after the clerk

 left the room.

 The bank was quiet. Footsteps were lost on the

 vast wood and stone floors. Humans seemed to be

 the intruders here, temporary visitors who came

 and went while the bank endured the storms of the

 centuries, a monument to the power of capital.

 Five pleasant minutes passed, then five more.

 Maximo was in no hurry. He was prepared to wait

 quite a while for $53 million, even if it took

 all day. Or several days. After all,

 he had waited a lifetime so far. But he wouldn't have

 to wait long. The clerk would be back momentarily.

 And he was.

 He came in, looked at Maximo with an odd

 expression, handed him back the transfer card with just

 the slightest hint of a bow.

 "I am sorry, sefior, but the balance of this account

 is so low that the transfer is impossible to honor."

 Maximo gaped uncomprehendingly. He

 swallowed, then said, "What did you say?"

 "I am sorry, sefior, but there has been some

 mistake."

 "Not on my partea"...Maximo replied heatedly.

 The clerk gave a tight little professional smile.

 "The bank's records are perfectly clear."...He

 held out the transfer card. "This account contains just a

 few dollars over one thousand."

 Maximo couldn't believe his ears. "Where did the

 money go?"

 "Obviously, due to the bank secrecy laws I

 have limited discretion about what I can say."

 Maximo Sedano leaped across the table at the man,

 grabbed him by his lapels.

 "Where did-the money go, fool"..."...he roared.

 "Someone with the proper authorization ordered the money

 transferred, senor. That much is obvious. I can

 say no more."

 And the clerk wriggled from his grasp.

  The story was the same at the next two banks

 Maximo Sedano visited. Each account contained just

 a few dollars above the minimum amount necessary

 to maintain the account.

  The horror of his position hit Maximo tike

 a hammer. Not only was there no money here for him,

 Alejo Vargas would kill him when he got back

 to Cuba.

  He told the bank officer at the last bank he

 visited that he wanted to make a telephone call,

 and he wanted the bank officer there to talk to the

 person at the other end.

  He called Vargas at home, caught him before

 he went to his office.

  After he had explained about the accounts, he asked

 the bank officer to verify what he had said. The

 officer refused to touch the telephone. "The bank

 secrecy laws are very strictea"...he said

 self-righteously. Maximo wanted to strangle him.

  Vargas had of course listened to this little exchange.

 "There is no moneyea"...Maximo told the

 secret-police chief. "Someone has stolen it."

  "You assea"...Vargas hissed.

 "You

 have stolen the money.

 You

 are the finance minister."

 "Call the other banks, Alejoea"...he urged.

 "They are here in Zurich. I will give you their names

 and the account numbers. Listen to what the bank officers

 have to say."

 "You are a capital ass, Sedano. The Swiss

 bankers will not talk to me. The money was deposited

 in Switzerland precisely

 because

 those bastards will talk to no one."

 "I will call you from their office and have them speak to you."

 "Have you lost your mind? What are you playing at?"

 This was a scene from a nightmare.

 "If I had the money I would not set foot in

 Cuba again, Vargas. We both know that. Use your

 head! I don't have the money: I'm coming home."

 He tried to slam the instrument into its cradle and

 missed, sent it skittering off the table. Fumbling,

 he picked it up by the cord, hung the thing properly

 on the cradle.

 The account officer looked at him with professional

 solicitude, much like an undertaker smiling at die

 next of kin.

 Perhaps the banks have stolen Fidel's money,

 Maximo thought.

 These Swiss bastards pocketed the Jews' money;

 maybe they are keeping Fidel's.

 He opened his mouth to say that very thing to the account officer

 sitting across the table, then thought better of it He

 picked up his attache"...case with the pistol in it and

 walked slowly out of the bank.

 The van took Hector Sedano to La Cabana

 fortress hi Havana. It stopped hi a dark

 courtyard where other men were waiting. They took him

 into the prison, down long corridors, through iron

 doors that opened before him and closed after him, until

 finally they stood before an empty cell hi the

 isolation area of the prison. Here they demanded his

 clothes, his shoes, his watch, die things in his

 pockets. When he stood naked someone gave him a

 one-piece jumpsuit. Wearing only that, he was

 thrust into die cell and the door was locked behind him.

 The journey from (he everyday world of people and

 voices and cares and concerns to the stark,

 vile reality of a prison cell is one of the most

 violent transitions in this life. The present and the

 future had been ripped from Hector Sedano,

 leaving only his memories of the past.

  Hector was well aware of the fact that he could be

 physically abused, beaten, even executed, at the

 whim of whoever had ordered him jailed. People disappeared

 in Cuban prisons, never to be heard from again.

  The parallels between his situation and that of Christ

 while awaiting his crucifixion immediately leaped

 to Hector's Jesuit mind. Not far behind was the

 realization that Fidel Castro had also been

 imprisoned before the revolution.

  Perhaps prison is a natural stage in the Me

 of a revolutionary. Imprisonment by the old regime

 for one's beliefs was de facto recognition that the

 beliefs were dangerous and the person who held them a

 worthy enemy. The person imprisoned was

 automatically elevated in stature and respect

  These thoughts swirled through Hector's mind as he

 sat on a hard wooden bunk without blankets and

 gave in to his emotions. He found himself shaking with

 anger. He paced, he pounded on the walls with his

 fists until they were raw.

  Finally he threw himself on the bunk and

 lay staring into the gloom.

 Angel del Mar

 pitched and rolled viciously as she wallowed

 helplessly in the swells. In every direction nothing

 could be seen but sea and cloudy sky. The sky was

 completely covered now with cloud, the wind was picking

 up, and the swells were getting bigger, with a shorter

 period between them. Aboard the boat, many people lay on

 their stomach and hugged the heaving deck.

  Everyone on board suffered from the lack of water,

 some to a greater degree than others. Ocho Sedano,

 who had had only a few mouthfuls since the boat

 left Cuba and had pushed himself relentlessly, without

 mercy, was desperate.

  His eyes felt like burning coals, his skin

 seemed on fire, his tongue a thick, lifeless

 lump of dead flesh in a cracked, dry mouth.

 He wasn't perspiring much now. Of all his

 symptoms, that one worried him the most. As an

 athlete he knew the importance of regulating

 body temperature.

 Dora lay in the shade cast by the wheelhouse and said

 nothing. She had been sick a time or two, vomit

 stained her dress. She seemed to be resting easier

 now.

 Beside her lay her father, Diego Coca. He was

 conscious, his eyes fierce and bright, his jaw swollen

 and misshapen. He hadn't moved in hours,

 unwilling to let anyone else have his spot in the

 shade.

 Ocho sat heavily near Dora, scanned the sea

 slowly and carefully.

 My

 God, there must be a ship! A ship or boatsomething

 to give us food and water...

 In all this sea there must be hundreds of fishing

 boats and yachts, dozens of freighters,

 smugglers, American Coast Guard cutters

 hunting smugglers, warships... Where the hell are

 they? Where are all these goddamn boats and ships?

 From time to time he heard jets flying over, occasionally

 saw one below the clouds, but they stayed high,

 disappeared into the sea haze.

 Under the mast an old woman sat weeping. She was

 the one who grieved for the. captain, for some of the people who

 were washed overboard that first night She wept

 silently, her shoulders shaking, her breath coming in

 gasps.

 He wanted to hug her, to comfort her, but mere was nothing

 he could say. His brother Hector would have

 known what to say, but Ocho did not.

 He looked longingly at Dora, Dora who was

 once beautiful, and he could think of nothing to say

 to her. Nothing.

 All the promise that life held, and they had thrown

 it away on a wild, stupid, doomed chance.

 Diego had led

 them, prodded them, demanded they go, and still he could think

 of nothing to say to Diego.

  He was so tired, so lethargic. He had pumped

 for hours, just keeping up with the water. If the water

 came in any faster... well, he didn't want

 to mink about it. They would all die then. They would have

 little chance swimming in the open sea.

  Ocho slumped over onto the moving deck. He

 was so tired, if he could just sleep, sleep....

  The old fisherman shook him awake. The sun was

 setting, the boat still rolling her guts out in the

 swell.

  "A fish..."...He held it up, about eighteen or

 twenty inches long. "No way to cook it, have to eat

 it raw. Keep up your strength."

  With two quick swipes of his knife, the fisherman

 produced two bleeding fillets. He offered one

 to Ocho, who closed his eyes and bit into the

 raw fish. He chewed.

  Someone was clawing at him, tearing at the fish.

  He opened his eyes. Diego Coca was stuffing a

 piece of the fish in his swollen mouth.

  The old man kicked Diego in the stomach,

 doubled him over, then pried his jaws apart and

 extracted the unchewed fish.

  "He's manning the pump that keeps you afloat,

 you son of a bitch. He has to eat or every one of us

 will die."

  Diego got a grip on the fisherman's knife

 and lunged for him.

  He grabbed for the slippery flesh, swung

 wildly with the knife.

  This time the old man kicked him hi the arm. The

 knife bounced once on the deck, then landed at an

 angle with the blade sticking into the wood, quivering.

  The fisherman waited for the boat to roll, then

 kicked Diego in the head. He went over

 backward and bis head made a hollow thunk as it

 hit the wooden deck. He went limp and lay

 unmoving.

 Retrieving his knife, the fisherman ate his chunk

 of raw

 fish in silence. Ocho chewed ravenously,

 letting the moisture bathe his mouth and throat. He

 held each piece in his mouth for several seconds,

 sucking at the juices, then reluctantly

 swallowing it down.

 Dora watched him with feverish eyes. He passed

 her a chunk of the fish and she rammed it into her mouth,

 all of it at once, chewed greedily while eyeing

 the old man, almost as if she were afraid he would

 take it from her.

 After she swallowed it, she tried to grin.

 Ocho averted his eyes.

 "Your turn on the pumpea"...the old man said.

 Diego lay right where he had fallen.

 Ocho got up, went into the wheelhouse and down into the

 engine room. The water in the bilge was sloshing around

 over his shoes as he began working the pump handle, up

 and down, up and down, endlessly.

 Hours later someone came to relieve him, one of the

 men in the captain's family. Ocho staggered up the

 stairs, so exhausted he had trouble making his hands do

 what he wanted.

 The people on deck had more fish. Ocho sat heavily

 by the wheelhouse. In the dim light from the stars and

 moon, he could see people ripping fish apart with their bare

 hands, stuffing flesh into their mouths, wrestling

 to get to fish that jumped over the rail when the boat

 rolled.

 He collapsed into a dreamless sleep.

  One of the butlers unlocked the bedroom door and

 took Mercedes to see Colonel Santana, who

 was standing behind Fidel's desk sorting papers. He

 didn't look up when she first came in. She found

 a chair and sat.

  "The government has not yet decided when or how

 to announce the death of

 el presidente.

 No doubt it will happen hi a few days, but until

 it does you are to remain here, in the residence, and

 talk to no one. Security Department people are on the

 switchboards and will monitor all telephone

 calls. The telephone lines that do not go through the

 switchboard have been disconnected."

  He eyed her askance, then went back to sorting

 papers. "After the official version of Fidel's

 death is written and announced, you will be free to go.

 I remind you now that disputing the official version of

 events is a crime."

  "Everyone swears to your history before you write

 it"..."...she snapped.

  Santana looked at her and smiled.

 "I was searching for the proper words to explain the nub of

 it and they just came to y"...he snapped his fingers"...l that.

 It is a gift, I think. When you say it so

 precisely, I know you understand. Ignorance will not be

 a defense if there is ever a problem."

  Mercedes got up from the chair and left the room.

  She wandered the hallways and reception rooms, the

 private areas, the offices, all now deserted. Every

 square foot was fuUs of memories. She could see

 him talking to people, bending down slightly to hear, for he

 had been a'talj man. She could not remember when

 he had not been the presi-

 dent of Cuba. When she was a girl, he was there.

 As a young woman, he was there. When she married, was

 widowed, when he took her to be his woman ...

 always, all her life there was Fidel.

 Such a man he had been! She was a Latin

 woman, and Fidel had been the epitome of the

 Latin man, a brilliant, athletic man, a

 commanding speaker, a perfect patriot, a man who

 defined machismo. The facets of Fidel's

 personality that the non-Latin world found most

 irritating were those Cubans accepted as hallmarks

 of a man. He was selfrighteous, proud, sure of his

 own importance and place in history, never

 admitted error, and refused to yield when

 humiliated by the outside world. He had struggled,

 endured, won much and lost even more, and in a way that

 non-Latins would never understand, had become the

 personification of Cuba.

 And she had loved him.

 In the room where he died the television cameras and

 lights were still in place, the wires still strung.

 Only Fidel's body was missing.

 She stood looking at the scene, remembering it,

 seeing him again as he was when she had known him best.

 Still magnificent.

 Now the tears came, a clouding of the eyes that she was

 powerless to stop. She found a chair and wept

 silently.

 Her mind wandered off on a journey of its own,

 recalling scenes of her life, moments with her mother,

 her first husband, Fidel....

 The tears had been dry for quite a while when she

 realized with a start that she was still sitting in this room.

 The cameras were there in front of her, mounted on

 heavy, wheeled tripods.

 These cameras must have some kind of film in them,

 videotape. She went to the nearest camera and

 examined it. Tentatively she pushed and

 tugged at buttons, levers, knobs. Finally a

 plate popped open and mere was the videocassette.

 She removed it from the camera and closed the plate.

 There was also a cassette in the second camera.

  With both cassettes concealed in the folds of her

 dress, Mercedes strode from the room.

  A wave breaking over the deck doused Ocho

 Sedano with lukewarm water and woke him from a

 troubled, exhausted steep.

 Angel del Mar

 was riding very low in the water. Even as he realized that

 the bilges must be full, another wave washed over

 the deck.

  Ocho dashed below. The old fisherman slumped

 over the pump, water sloshed nearly waist-deep in

 die bilge. Ocho eased bun aside, began

 pumping. He could feel the resistance, feel the

 water moving through the pump. He laid into it with a will.

  "Sorryea"...the old man said weakly. "Worn out.

 Just worn out"

  "Go up on deck. Dry out some, disdrink some

 water."

  The old man nodded, crawled slowly up the

 steep ladder. He slipped once, almost smashed his

 face on one of the steps. Finally his feet

 disappeared into the wheelhouse.

  Three rain showers during the night had allowed

 everyone on board to drink their fill, to replenish

 dehydrated tissue, and when Ocho last looked,

 mere were several gallons of water hi the bucket

 under the tarp that no one could drink.

  Ocho was no longer thirsty, but he was hungry as

 hell. There had been no more fish. Without line,

 hooks, bait, or nets they were unable to catch fish

 from the sea. Unless the creatures leaped onto the

 deck of the boat they were out of reach. So far, there had

 been no more of those.

  The tarp they caught the diswater in gave the

 liquid a brackish taste, which everyone ignored.

 Still, water on an empty stomach made one aware

 of just how hungry he was.

  Ocho pumped, felt his muscles loosen up,

 enjoyed the resistance mat meant the pump was moving

 water. After fifteen minutes of maximum effort

 he could see that the

 water level was down about six inches. He settled

 in to work at a steady, sustainable pace.

 The horizon remained empty. Empty! Not a

 boat or sail. Endless swells and sky hi every

 direction.

 It was almost as if the Lord had abandoned them, left

 them to die on this leaky little boat in the midst of this

 great vast ocean, while planes went overhead and

 boats and ships passed by on every side, just over the

 horizon.

 We won't have to wait long,

 Ocho thought.

 Our fate is very near. If the chain on this pump

 breaks, if we run out of energy to pump, if the

 swells get larger and waves start coming aboard, the

 boat will break up and the people will go into the sea. That would be

 our fate, to drown like all those people who went overboard

 that first night.

 They are dead now, surely. Past all caring.

 Amazing how that works. Everyone has to die, but you

 only have to do it once. You fight like hell to get

 there, though, and when you arrive the world continues as if you

 had never been.

 As he pumped he wondered about his mother, how she was

 doing, wondered if he should have told her he was going

 to America.

 An hour later Ocho was still pumping, the water was

 down several feet and the boat was riding better in the

 sea. And he was wearing out. He heard someone coming

 down the ladder, then saw feet. It was

 Dora.

 She clung to the ladder, watched him standing in water

 to his knees working die pump handle up and down,

 up and down, up and down.

 "It's Papaea"...she said.

 He said nothing, waited for her to go on.

 "I think he has given up."

 Ocho kept pumping.

 "Speak to me, Ocho. Don't insult me with your

 silence."

 Ocho switched arms without missing a stroke. "What

 is there to say? If he has given up, he has

 given up.". "Will we be rescued?"'

 ,

 "Am I God? How would I know?"

  "1 am

 sick

 of this boat, this oceanff"...she snarled. "Sick of it,

 you understand?"'

  "I understand."

  She sobbed, sniffed loudly.

  Ocho kept pumping.

  "I don't think you love meea"...she said, finally.

  "I don't know that I do."

  She watched him pump, up and down,

 rhythmically, endlessly.

  "Doesn't that make you tired?"

  "Yes."

  "We're going to die, aren't we?"

  He wiped the sweat from his face with

 backslash as

 free hand. "All of us, sooner or later, yes."

  "I mean now. This boat is going to sink.

 We're going to drown."

  He looked at her for the first time. Her skin was

 stretched tightly over her face, her teeth were

 bared, her eyes were narrowed with an intensity he had

 never seen before.

  "I don't knowea"...he said gently.

  "I don't want to die now."

  He lowered his face so that he wouldn't have to look

 at her, kept the handle going up and down.

  She went back up the ladder, disappeared from

 view.

  Ocho paused, straightened as best he could under the

 low overhead and looked critically at the water

 remaining in the boat. He was gaining. He stretched,

 crossed himself on the off chance God might be

 watching, then went back to pumping.

  The dA's man in Cuba was an

 American, Dr. Henri Bouchard, a former

 college professor who lived and worked inside the

 American Interest Section of the Swiss

 embassy, a complex of buildings that in former days

 housed the American embassy and presumably

 someday would again.

 STEPHEN COONTS

 The Cubans watched the American diplomats very

 closely, so this officer had no contact with the

 agency's covert intelligence apparatus on the

 island. He kept himself busy watching television,

 listening to radio, collecting Cuban newspapers

 and publications and writing reports based on what

 he saw, heard, and read. His diplomatic

 colleagues were congenial and the life was

 semi-monastic, which he found agreeable.

 The man who ran the covert side of the business, was

 a Cuban who had never set foot inside the

 U.s. Interest Section and probably never would.

 He owned a wholesale seafood operation on the

 waterfront in Havana Harbor. Every day the fishing

 boats brought their catch to his pier and every day he

 purchased what he thought he could sell. Both the

 price he paid and the price he charged were

 set by the government: had there not been a black

 market for fish he would have starved.

 The cover was decent A Cuban fishing boat could

 meet an Americaneaboat or submarine at sea,

 passing messages or material in either direction.

 The spymaster's delivery trucks visited every

 restaurant, casino, and embassy in the capital.

 With people and things coming and going, the old man could keep his

 pulse on Cuba. He was called el Tiburon,

 the Shark.

 William Henry Chance had no intention of ever

 meeting el Tiburon unless disaster was staring him in the

 face. The CIA man in the American Interest

 Section was another matter.

 "Ah, yes, Mr. Chance. Delighted to meet you,

 of course."

 Dr. Bouchard shook hands with Chance and Carmellini

 as he peered at them over the top of his glasses.

 He led them down several narrow hallways to a

 tiny, windowless cubicle in the bowels of the building.

 "Sorry to say, mis is the office. Security,

 you know. They used to store food in here. Damp but

 quiet"...He took a stack of newspapers off the

 only guest chair and moved

 them to Ms desk, extracted a folding

 metal chair from behind his desk and unfolded it for

 Carmellini, then settled into his ctfair.

 The knees of all three men almost touched. "So how

 are you enjoying Cuba?"

 "Fascinatingea"...Chance muttered.

 "Yes, isn't it"..."...Professor Bouchard beamed

 complacently. "Six years I've been here, and I

 don't ever want to leave. I don't miss the

 snow, I'll tell you, or the faculty

 politics, feuds, dog-eat-dog jealousy over

 department budgetsthank God I'm-out of all that."

 Chance nodded, unwilling to get to the point.

 "We met once or twice before, I thinkea"...Chance

 reminded Bouchard.

 "Oh, yes, I do seem to recall... $'e

 They discussed it.

 "My associate, Mr. Carmellini. I don't

 think you've met him."

 The pleasantries over at last, Chance edged around

 to business. "You have a few items in your storeroom

 that we need to borrow, I believe."

 "Certainly. The inventory is in the safe. If you

 gentlemen will step into the hall for a moment..."

 They did so and he fiddled with the dial of the safe.

 When he had the file he wanted and the safe

 was closed and locked, he seated himself again at his

 desk. Chance sat back down. Carmellini

 remained standing.

 "This is the inventory, I'm sure. Yes. What

 is it you want?"

 "Two Rugers with silencers, ammunition, two

 garroting wires, two fighting knives, a dozen

 disposable latex gloves, two self-contained gas

 masks"

 "Let's see..."...The professor ran his finger

 down the list. "Guns, check. Ammo, okay.

 Knives ... knives ... oh, here they are.

 Wires, garroting, check ... gloves ...

 masks. Yes, I think we have what you need. Do you

 want to take this stuff with you?"

 "I think so. In a suitcase of some kind, if you

 can manage that."

 "I'll have to give you one of mine. You can'return

 it or pay me for it, as you prefer."

 "We'll try to return it."

 "That's best, I think. The accounting department is so

 difficult about expense accounts. You gentlemen

 wait here; I'll see what I can do. While

 you're waiting, would you like a cup of coffee, a soft

 drink?"

 "I'm fine caret Chance said.

 "Don't worry about meea"...Carmellini said.

 "This will take a few minutesea"...the professor

 advised. "Would you like to wait in the courtyard? The

 flora there is my hobby, and the eagle from the Maine

 Memorial is a rare work of art."

 "That's the big eagle over the doorway?"

 "Yes. After the revolution Castro demanded it

 be'removed from the Maine Memorial. That was about the

 time he announced he was a communist, before the Bay of

 Pigs. Difficult era for everyone."

 "Ah, yes. We'll find our way."

 "I'll look for you in the courtyard when I have your

 itemsea"...the professor said, and scurried off. ,

 The eagle was huge. "Quite a work of

 artea"...Carmellini muttered.

 "Too big for youea"...Chance said.

 "I don't know about thatea"...Carmellini replied, and

 glanced around to see if there was any way to get the thing

 out of the mission ground with a crane. "Run a mobile

 construction crane up to the wall, send a man down

 on the hook, haul it out. I could snatch it and be

 gone in six or seven minutes."

 Chance didn't even bother to frown. Carmellini had

 a habit of chaffing him in an unoffensive

 way; protest would be futile.

 'The professor is the most incurious man I've

 ever met,"

 Tommy Carmellini said conversationally a few

 minutes later.

 "He doesn't want to know too much."

 "He doesn't want to know anythingea"...Carmellini

 protested. "People who don't ask obvious questions

 worry me."

 "Hmmmea"...sd William Henry Chance, who

 didn't seem at all worried.

 The professor came looking for them a half hour

 later. After he had scrawled an illegible

 signature on a detailed custody card, Chance

 offered the professor a photo of a man that his

 surveillance team had taken outside the

 University of Havana science building. The man

 was in his sixties, slightly overweight, balding,

 and looking at the camera almost full face. He

 didn't see the camera that took the picture, of

 course, since it was in the van.

 "If you could, Professor, I would like you to send this

 to Washington. I want to know who this man is."

 "American"..."...Dr. Bouchard asked, accepting the

 photo and glancing at it.

 "I have no idea, sir. We've seen him around here

 and there and wondered who he might be. Would you have the

 folks in Langley try to find out?"

 "Of courseea"...the professor said, and put the photo

 in his pocket.

 Toad Tarkington was in a rare foul mood. He

 snapped at the yeomen, snarled at the flag

 lieutenant, fumed over the message board, and

 generally glowered at anyone who looked his way.

 This state of affairs could not go on, of course, so

 he went to Ms stateroom, put on his running

 togs, and went on deck for a jog. The tropical

 sea air, the long foaming rollers, the puffy

 clouds running on the breeze, the deep blue of the

 Caribbeanall of it made his mood more foul.

 None of the leads to find the

 Colon

 had borne fruit. The ship was still missing, the

 captain and crew had stayed

 aboard her all the time she was tied to the pier in

 Guantanamo, the gloom seemed impenetrable. The

 air wing was still searching, but as yet, nothing! And of

 course the temperature of the rhetoric coming from the

 White House and Pentagon was rising by the hour.

 Toad was jogging aft from the bow when a

 petty officer from the admiral's staff flagged him

 down. "The AI'S have a photo of the Coston!"

 "Where is she?"

 "Aground on a reef off the north shore of

 Cuba:"

 Toddad bolte.d for the hatchway that led down into the

 ship, the petty officer right behind.

 The photo was of the

 Colon,

 all right. The ship looked as if it were wedged on some

 rocks, almost as if it grounded during a high tide.

 Now the tide was out and the

 Colon

 was marooned.

 "When was this picture taken"..."...Toad demanded of the

 air intelligence officers.

 "Yesterday."

 "And no one recognized it?"

 "Not until today.".

 Toad growled. "Have you passed this to the admiral?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "Show me the location."

 The AI pinpointed the location on a sectional

 chart.

 Toad called Jake Grafton. "I

 want to see that shipea"...Jake said. "As soon as

 possible. We'll take an F-14 with a TARPS

 package."...TARPS stood for tactical air

 reconnaissance pods. Each pod contained two

 cameras and an infrared line scanner.

 Cuba is an island surrounded by islands, over

 sixteen hundred of them. Most of the islands on

 Cuba's north shore are small, uninhabited,

 rocky bits of tropical paradise, or so they

 looked to Jake Grafton, who saw them through

 binoculars from the front seat of an F-14.

 The ship was about three miles offshore, stranded on

 rocks that just pierced the surface of the sea. The

 breaking surf looked white through the binoculars.

 The freighter was plainly visible, listing slightly.

 Some of the weapons containers were visible on the main

 deck. Jake checked the photo in his lap, which was

 taken yesterday by an FirstA-18 Hornet pilot

 with a hand-held 35-mm camera. Yep, the containers

 visible in the photo were still in place aboard the ship.

 Although the Cubans claimed a twelve-mile

 territorial limit, the United States

 recognized but three.

 Nuestra Senora de Colon

 was stranded on a reef in international

 waters, the AI'S assured Jake. They had

 checked with the State Department, they said.

 South of the ship was the entrance to Bahia de Nipe,

 a decent-sized shallow-water bay.

 Was the ship on her way into the bay when she went on

 the rocks?

 Jake was making his initial photo passes a

 mile to seaward of the

 Colon.

 In the event the Cubans chose to send interceptors

 to chase him away, he had a flight of F-14's

 ten miles farther north providing cover. Above them

 was an EA-6But Prowler electronic warfare

 airplane, listening forand ready to jam any Cuban

 fire-control radar that came on the air. According to the

 electronic warfare detection gear in Jake's

 cockpit, he was being painted only by search radars.

 That, as he well knew, could change any second.

 He had just completed a photo pass from west to east

 and was turning to seaward when the E-2 came on the

 air. "Battlestar One, we have company. Bogey

 twenty miles west of your posit, heading your way.

 Looks like a Fulcrum."...A Fulcrum was a

 MiGo-29.

 Jake keyed his radio mike. "Roger

 that. I'll make one more photo pass before he gets

 here, then exit the area to the north."

 He tucked the nose down and let the Tomcat

 accelerate. The plane was alive in his handthe

 descending jet bumped and bounced in the swirling,

 roiling tropical air

 under the puffy cumulus clouds drifting along on the

 trade wind.

 "Cameras are on and runningea"...Toad Tarkington

 said from the back seat.

 Staying just outside the three-mile limit, Jake

 flew past the stern of the stranded freighter one more time,

 which meant he was probably getting fine views of

 her stern and oblique views of her flanks.

 "Since we're here ..."...he muttered, and dropped

 a wing as he eased the stick and throttles forward.

 In the back seat, Toad Tarkington was monitoring

 the recon package. "I sure am glad we're

 staying out of Cuban airspaceea"...he told Jake.

 "I'd feel a lot more comfortable outside the

 twelve-mile limit, but that's asking too much of this

 technology. A ship sitting on the rocks like this,

 looks like a setup to me. They're looking

 to mousetrap some dude flying by snapping pictures

 and perforate his heinie."

 "Yeahea"...sd Jake Grafton, and leveled off at

 a hundred feet above the water. He had the

 F-14 flying parallel with the axis of the ship,

 offset with the ship to his right since the recon

 package was mounted under his right engine.

 "Got the cameras and IR scanner going?"

 "Oh, yeah, looking real goodea"...Toad said, just as

 he picked up the seascape passing by the canopy with

 his peripheral vision. He looked right just in time

 to see the freighter flash by, then Jake

 Grafton pulled back on the stick and lit the

 afterburners. The Tomcat's nose rose to sixty

 degrees above the horizon and it went up like a

 rocket, corkscrewing back toward the ocean, as the

 E-2 Hawkeye radar operator called the

 bogey for the Showtime F-14 crews who were

 Jake's armed guard. Both RIO'S said they had

 the bogey on radar.

 "Like I saidea"...Toad told Jake, "sure is

 great we're staying outside Cuban airspace."

 "Greatea"...his pilot agreed.

 "Don't want to piss anybody off."

 "Oh, no."

 "Wonder why that ship ended up where it did?"

 "Maybe the photos will tell us."

 "Bogey is six miles aft, Battlestar

 Oneea"...the E-2 Hawkeye radar operator said,

 "four hundred knots, closing from your eight o'clock."

 "You wanna turn toward him, Admiral, let me

 pick him up on the radar"..."...Toad asked this question.

 "No, let's clear to seaward."

 "I got him visualea"...Toad said as the Tomcat

 climbed past fifteen thousand feet. "He's a little

 above us, pulling lead."

 "Pulling lead"..."...Jake looked over his left

 shoulder, found the MiGo-29.

 "He could take a gunshot anytimeea"...Toad said.

 "He's rendezvousingea"...Jake said, "Gonna join

 on our left wing, looks like."

 And that is what the MiGo did. He closed

 gently, his nose well out in front, his axis almost

 parallel, a classic rendezvous. The MiGo

 stabilized in a parade position, about four feet

 between wingtips, stepped down perhaps three feet.

 Despite the bumpy air the MiGo held position

 effortlessly.

 Jake Grafton and Toad Tarkington sat staring

 at the helmeted figure of Carlos Corrado in

 the other cockpit. Toad lifted his 35-mm

 camera, snapped off a dozen photos of the

 Cuban fighter and the two air-to-air missiles

 hanging on the racks.

 "Think he knows we were inside the three-mile

 limit"..."...Toad asked Jake.

 "His GCI controller told him, probably."

 Corrado stayed glued to the F-14. He paid no

 attention to the other Tomcats that came swooping in

 to join the formation, didn't even bother to glance at

 them.

 Jake Grafton slowly advanced his throttles

 to 95 percent RPM. The MiGo was right with him.

 Leaving the power set, he got the nose coming up,

 began to roll away from the MiGo, up and over to the

 inverted and right on through,

 coming on with the G to keep the nose from scooping out ...

 a medium-sloppy barrel roll.

 Now a barrel roll to the left. The two

 F-14's behind Carlos Corrado moved

 into trail position, behind and stepped down slightly,

 to more easily stay with the maneuvering airplanes, but

 Corrado held his position in left parade as if

 he were welded there.

 Now a loop. Up, up, up and over the top, G

 increasing down the backside, the sea and sky changing

 position very nicely, the sun dancing across

 the cockpit. .

 "This guy's pretty goodea"...Toad remarked

 grudgingly.

 "Pretty good?"

 "Okay, he's a solid stick."

 Now a half loop and half roll at the top,

 fly along straight and level for a count of five,

 roll again and half turn into a lopsided split

 S, one offset from the vertical by forty-five

 degrees. Coming out of the dive Jake let the nose

 climb until it was pointed straight up; he

 slowly rolled around his axis, then pulled the plane

 on over onto its back and waited until the nose

 was forty-five degrees below the horizon before rolling

 wings level and beginning his pullout. Through it all

 Carlos Corrado stayed glued in position on

 Jake's wing.

 Coming out of the last maneuver, Jake Grafton

 turned eastward. The MiGo-29 stayed with the

 American fighters for fifteen more minutes, until

 the flight was near the eastern tip of Cuba, Cape

 Maisi, and turning south. Only then did Carlos

 Corrado wave at Jake and Toad and lower his

 nose to cross under the F-14.

 Out of the corner of his eye Jake saw

 Toad salute the MiGo pilot as he turned

 away to the west.

 "Wonder why that ship ended up on those

 rocks"..."...Toad Tarkington mused aloud. Jake

 Grafton, Gil Pascal, Lieutenant

 Colonel Eckhardt, Toad, and several of the

 photo interpretation specialists were bent over a

 table in the Air

 Intelligence spaces studying the photographs from

 the F-14's reconnaissance pod.

 "Maybe the person at the con was lostea"...the senior

 AI speculated.

 "Or didn't know the watersea"...the marine suggested.

 "Maybe the Cubans wanted it thereea"...Gil said.

 Jake Grafton used a magnifying glass

 to study photos of the island closest to the stranded

 freighter.

 "Here's a crew setting up an artillery

 pieceea"...he said, and straightened so everyone could see.

 "If they planned to strand the ship on those rocks,

 one would think they would have set up guns and a few

 SAM batteries in advance."

 "Maybe that's what they want us to think."

 "How far is the ship from the nearest dry

 land?"'

 "Three point two nautical miles, sir."...That

 was one of the photo interpretation specialists, a first

 class petty officer. "If you look at this

 satellite photo of the mam island, Admiral, you

 will see that there are two SAM batteries near this

 small port ten miles south of where the

 Colon

 went on the rocks."

 "That's probably where the ship was going when it hit the

 rocksea"...Jake said. "Or where it had been. So how

 many artillery and missile sites are in the area?"

 "Four,"

 "We'll have EA-6But Prowlers and

 FirstA-18 Hornets overhead, HARM

 missiles on the rails, F-14's as cover.

 The instant one of those fire-control radars comes on

 the air, I want it taken out."

 "When do you want to land aboard the ship"..."...Eckhardt

 asked.

 Jake Grafton looked at his watch. "One hi

 the morning."

 "Five hours from now?"

 "Can we do it?"

 "If we push."

 "Let's push. I talked to General Totten in the

 Pentagon. He agreeswe should inspect that ship as

 soon as possible. For me, that's five hours from

 now. We will go in three

 Ospreys. The lead Osprey will puf Commander

 Tarkington and me on the ship; Lieutenant

 Colonel Eckhardt will be in the second bird

 leading a rescue team to pull us out if anything

 goes wrong. The third Osprey will contain another

 ten-man team, led by your executive officer."

 Captain Pascal zeroed in immediately. "Do the people in

 Washington know that you intend to board that ship,

 Admiral?"

 "No, and I'm not going to ask."

 "Sir, if you get caughta two-star admiral on

 a ship stranded in Cuban waters?"

 "The ship is in international waters. We must find

 out what happened aboard the

 Colon

 after it left Guantaiiamo. The stakes are very

 high. I am going to take a personal look.

 While I'm gone, Gil, you have the con."

 "Admiral, with all due respect, sir, I

 think you should take more than just one person with you. Why

 not a half dozen well-armed marines?"

 "I don't know what's on that

 shipea"...Jake'"explained. "There may be people

 aboard, there may be a biological hazard, it

 may be booby-trapped. It just makes sense to have a

 point man explore the unknown before we risk very many

 lives. I am going to be the point man because I

 want to personally see what is there, and I make the

 rules. Understand?"

 The news about the loss of a ship loaded with

 biological weapons arrived in Washington with the

 impact of a highexplosive warhead on a cruise

 missile.

 When the National Security Council met to be

 briefed about the ship the president was there, and he was

 in an ugly mood.

 "Let me get this straight,"eahe said, interrupting

 the national security adviser, who was briefing the

 group. "We decided to remove our stockpile of

 biological and chemical warheads from

 Guantdnamo Bay when we heard Castro

 might be developing biological weapons of his

 own. Is that correct?"

 "The timing was incidental, sir. They were scheduled

 to be moved."

 "Scheduled to be moved next yearea"...the president

 saitl acidly. "We hurried things along when the

 CIA got wind that El Gato might be shipping

 lab equipment to Cuba. Will you grant me that?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "Just for the record, why in hell were those damned things

 in Gitmo in the first place?"

 "A computer error, sir, back when the Pentagon

 was prepositioning war supplies at Guantanamo.

 Somehow the CBW material got on the list, and by the

 time the error was discovered, the stuff was on its way."

 The president's lip curled in a sneer. "Did

 this circle jerk happen under my administration?"

 "No, sir. The previous one."

 The president glanced at the ceiling. "Thank you,

 God."

 He took a deep breath, exhaled, then said, "So

 we decided to clean up old mistakes. We

 didn't want to take the chance Castro knew of our

 CBW stockpiles at Gitmo when we started

 fulminating about bis." The president was addressing

 the national security adviser. "But to cover our

 asses, you wanted a carrier battle group that just

 happened to be in the Caribbean to keep an eye on

 things while you got the weapons out. Just

 having the navy hanging around would keep the Cubans

 honest, you said."

 "Yes, sir."

 "And now a ship full of weapons from the Gitmo

 warehouse is on the rocks off the Cuban coast."

 'The ship is on the rocks, but we don't know if

 any weapons are still aboard."...v

 "Are you going to court-martial the admiral in charge

 of the battle group"..."...the president asked the

 chairman of the joint chiefs, General Howard D.

 "Tater"...Totten, a small, gray-haired man

 who looked like he was hiding inside the

 green, badged, bemedaled uniform of a four-star army

 general.

 "No, sir. He was told to quote 'monitor"

 unquote the situation in Guantanamo, not escort

 cargo ships. He actually had the cargo ship that was

 hijacked escorted out of Cuban waters, but he

 didn't disdirect that it be escorted all the way

 to Norfolk. No one did, because apparently no one

 thought an escort necessary."

 "Was the ship hijacked?"

 "We don't know, sir. We've been unable

 to contact it by radio."

 "How are we going to find out if the weapons

 are still aboard?"

 "Send marines aboard tonight to look."

 "I don't think that ship is stranded in international

 watersea"...the secretary of state said.

 "Your department told us it wasea"...Totten shot

 back.

 "That was a first impression by junior staffers. Our

 senior people demanded a closer look. We are just not

 sure. The determination depends on where one draws

 the line that defines the mouth of the bay. Reasonable people

 can disagree."

 Totten took a deep breath. "Mr.

 President, we don't know what happened aboard

 that ship. We don't know if the weapons are

 aboard. If they have been removed, we need to learn

 where they went. Now is not the time to split hairs

 over the nuances of international law. Let's board

 the ship and get some answers, then the lawyers can

 argue to their hearts' content."

 "That's the problem with you uniformed testosterone

 typesea"...the secretary of state snarled. "You think

 you can violate the law any time it suits your

 purposes."

 The president of the United States was a cautious

 man by nature, a blow-dried

 politician who had maneuvered with the wind at his

 back all his life. His national security adviser

 knew him well, General Totten thought, when he

 said, "Preliminary indications are that the stranded ship

 is

 CUBA J87rter-than

 in international waters, Mr. President. The

 naval commander on the scene has the authority

 to examine a wreck

 in international waters if he feels it prudent to do

 so. Let him make the decision and report back

 what he finds."

 "That's rightea"...the president said. "I think that is the

 proper way for us to approach this."

 "Will you pass that on to the battle group commander"..."...the

 national security adviser asked General Totten.

 The general reached for an encrypted telephone.

 Jake Grafton and Toad Tarkington went

 aboard the V-22 parked at the head of the line on

 the flight deck of USS

 United States.

 Marines filed aboard the second and third

 airplane. Tonight the carrier was thirty miles

 northeast of Cape Maisithe distance to the stranded

 freighter was a bit over a hundred

 miles.

 Jake was more nervous than he had been in a long,

 long time. Before he left the mission planning

 spaces this evening, he looked again at the chart that

 depicted the threat envelope of the two

 surface-to-air missile sites on the Cuban

 mainland just a few miles from the stranded freighter,

 Nuestra Sefiora de Colon.

 The freighter was well inside those envelopes, and the

 Ospreys would be also.

 Jake had had a long talk with the EA-6But

 electronic warfare crews and the four FirstA-18

 Hornets that would be over the Ospreys carrying

 HARM'S. HARM stood for high-speed

 antiradiation missile. Enemy radars were the

 targets of HARM'S, which rode the beams right into the

 dishes. HARM'S even had memories, so if an

 enemy operator turned off his radar after a HARM

 was launched, the missile would still fly to the memorized

 location.

 "If the Cubans turn on the SAM radars,

 open fireea"...Jake told his guardian angels.

 "Don't wait until their missiles are in the

 air."

 "Yes, sir."

 Jake had heard nothing from Washington waffling on the

 assertion that the

 Colon

 was in international waters, so

 as far as he was concerned, that fact was a given. The

 Cubans had no right to fire on ships or planes

 in international waters. If they did, Jake

 Grafton would shoot back. Of course, if the

 Cubans shot first, they would probably kill a

 planeload or two of Americans, Jake

 Grafton included. The crews of the EA-6But

 Prowlers and Hornets were well aware of that

 reality.

 As he sat in the Osprey Jake Grafton

 wondered if the enlisted marines in the other two

 planes understood the risks involved in this mission.

 He suspected they didn't know, and in truth

 probably didn't want to. Their job was to obey

 their officers; if the officers led them into action,

 fretting about the odds wasn't going to do any good at

 all.

 That thought led straight to another: Did he understand the

 risks?

 "You okay, Admiral?"

 That was Toad.

 Jake Grafton nodded, smiled. A friend like

 Tarkingtoh was a rare thing indeed. He hadn't asked

 Toad if he wanted to risk his life on this

 mission; the commander would have been insulted if he had.

 The warm noisy darkness inside the plane seemed

 comforting, somehow, as if the plane were a loud, safe

 womb. After takeoff Jake sat for five minutes

 with his eyes closed, savoring the flying sensations,

 recharging his batteries. Then he made his way

 toward the cockpit and squatted behind the pilots,

 both of whom were wearing night-vision goggles. From this

 vantage point Jake could see the computer displays

 on the instrument panel. The flight engineer handed him

 a helmet, already plugged in, so that he could talk

 to the pilots and listen to the radio.

 He heard the Prowler and Hornets checking in, the

 F-14's, the S-3 tankers.

 He heard Rita call twenty miles to go to the

 mission coordinator in the E-2 Hawkeye.

 She had the Osprey flying at a thousand feet above

 the water, inbound at 250 knots.

 "Visibility is five or six milesea"...she

 told Jake over the

 intercom. "Some rain showers around. Wind out

 of the west northwest."

 "Okay."

 "We'll do it like we plannedea"...she continued, making

 sure Jake, the copilot, and her crew chief

 all understood what was to happen. "I'll hover into the

 wind, then back down toward the ship, put the ramp

 over the fantail."

 "Ten milesea"...the copilot sang out.

 Jake took off the aircraft helmet and donned

 a marine tactical helmet, which contained a small

 radio that broadcast on one of four tactical

 frequencies. Repeaters in the Ospreys picked

 up the low-powered helmet transmissions and

 rebroadcast them so that everyone on the tactical

 net could hear, including the mission coordinator in

 the E-2, the people aboard the carrier, and the pilots

 of the airborne planes.

 Jake pulled on a set of night-vision goggles

 and looked forward, through the Ospfey windscreen. The

 night was gone, banished. He could see the stranded

 freighter, still several miles away, see the surf

 breaking on the rocks, the containers stacked on

 deck, the empty sea in all directions. He

 looked toward the nearest land, an island just over

 three miles away; he could just make out the

 line of breaking surf.

 The Osprey was slowing: Rita rotated the engine

 nacelles toward the vertical position as she

 transitioned from wing-borne cruising flight to pure

 helicopter operation. Computers monitored her

 control inputs and gradually increased the

 effectiveness of the rotor swashplates as

 flaperons, elevators and rudders lost their

 effectiveness due to the decreasing airspeed. The

 transition from wing-borne to rotor-borne flight was

 smooth, seamless, a technological miracle, and

 Jake Grafton appreciated it as such.

 Jake Grafton kept his eyes on the ship. No

 people in sight. The bow of the ship was on the rocks. The

 ship had a small forecastle superstructure, with the

 main superstructure and bridge on the stern of the

 ship. The ship's cargo

 was in holds amidships, with extra containers stacked

 between the bridge and forecastle. The ship had two

 large cranes, one forward, one aft. She had a

 single stack, and probablygiven her sizeonly one

 screw.

 Jake could see that the containers on the deck were

 jumbled about, several obviously open and empty.

 Others, a whole bunch, seemed to be

 missing.

 Now Rita swung into the wind, away from the

 Colon.

 The ramp at the back of the aircraft was open, with

 Toad and the crew chief waiting there. Jake

 Grafton walked aft to join them.

 The crew chief gave Rita directions on the

 ICS, back fifty feet, down ten, as she

 watched her progress on a small television

 screen that had been rigged hi the cockpit for this

 mission.

 Lower, closer to the ship ... and the ramp touched the

 deck.

 "Go, go, goea"...the crew chief shouted.

 Jake spoke into his voice-activated boom

 mike: "Let's go!"

 The fixed deck of the stranded freighter felt strange

 after a half hour hi the moving Osprey: The wash

 from the mighty, 38-foot rotors was a

 mini-hurricane here on the fantail, a mixture

 of charged air and sea spray, dirt, and trash from the

 deck and containers.

 Jake and Toad crouched on the deck as the

 Osprey moved away. The ramp had been against the

 deck for no more than fifteen seconds.

 Jake spoke into his lip mike, made sure the

 mission coordinator could hear him. Gripping an

 M-16 in the ready position, Toad led them

 forward along the main deck. Jake Grafton

 carried a video camera, which was running, and two

 35-mm cameras. The video and one of the still

 cameras were loaded with infrared film, the other

 35-mm contained regular film and was equipped with a

 flash attachment.

 First stop was the main deck, where he inspected the

 containers mere. Many had doors hanging open, some still

 had the doors closed, but all the containers were

 empty. Although he wasn't sure how many containers

 were supposed to be there, the area around the main hatches

 was remarkably clear. The hatches themselves were not

 properly installed. One hatch was ajar.

 No people about. None. The ship seemed totally

 deserted and firmly aground. Jake could feel no

 motion.

 He used a flashlight to look into the hold. This

 section of the hold didn't seem to be full. Many

 of the containers were open.

 Filming with the video camera, pausing now and then

 to shoot still photos, the two men searched

 until they found a ladder that led down into the hold.

 Toad waited by the hatchway, his M-16 at the

 ready.

 Jake went down the ladder into the dark bay.

 He had his night-vision goggles off now; in total

 darkness they were useless. He snapped on the

 flashlight, looked around, fingered the pistol in the

 holster on his hip.

 This hold was half-empty, with the packing material that

 had been wrapped around the warheads strewn everywhere.

 The place was knee-deep in trash. The containers that

 were there were obviously empty.

 Jake didn't stay but a minute or so, then he

 climbed back up the ladder.

 "Let's check the bridgeea"...he said to Toad over

 the tactical radio.

 They went aft along the main deck and climbed an

 outside ladder to the bridge, which stretched from one

 side of the ship to the other.

 "They've cleaned her outea"...Toad remarked over the

 tac net.

 "Yeahea"...Jake replied, and kept climbing.

 On the bridge Jake again removed the nightjvision

 goggles and used a flashlight. He wanted to see

 whatever was there in natural light.

 What he found were bloodstains. A lot of blood

 had been spilled here on the bridge; pools of

 congealed, sticky

 black blood lay on the deck. People had walked in

 it, tracking the stuff all over.

 "Not everyone was on the payrollea"...Jake muttered,

 and quickly completed his search. He aimed the video

 camera at the stains, then snapped a couple

 photos with the regular camera using the flash.

 Toad used a flashlight to search for the log book and

 ship's documents. "The safe is open and

 emptyea"...he told Jake Grafton. He came

 over to watch the admiral work the cameras.

 "Where in hell are the warheads"..."...Toad asked

 aloud.

 "The Americans are aboard the

 Colon,

 Colonel."

 The man shook Santana awake. He held a

 candle, which flickered in the tropical breeze coming

 through the screen.

 Santana sat up and tossed the sheet aside.

 He consulted his watch.

 He got out of bed, walked out onto the porch of the

 small house and searched the night sea with

 binoculars. Nothing.

 He lowered the binoculars, stood listening.

 Yes, he could hear engine sounds, very faint... jet

 engines, the whopping of rotors....

 "How long have they been aboard?"

 "I don't know, sir. With this wind it is hard

 to hear helicopter noises. When I heard the

 voices on the radio, I came to wake you."

 "Admiral, look at this."...Toad came over to where

 Jake was standing, showed him the screen of a small

 battery-operated computer. "I'm picking up

 radio transmissions, even when we are not using the

 tactical net. Something on the ship is

 broadcasting."

 Jake Grafton pulled his mike down to his

 lips. "Hawkeye, this is Cool Hand. Has

 anyone been picking up radio transmissions from the

 target?"

 "Cool Hand, Hawkeye. They started about a

 minute ago, sir, when you went up on the bridge.

 We have them now."

 "What kind of transmissions?"

 "Amazingly, sir, I'm receiving clear channel

 radio. I'm actually hearing you talk on

 this other frequency."

 "What the hell? ..."

 Oh, sweet Jesus!

 "This damned ship is wired to blow. The bastards are

 listening to us right now. We gotta get offff"...With that

 he gave Toad a push toward the door of the

 bridge. Toad ran. Jake Grafton was right

 behind him.

 Colonel Santana couldn't see anything through the

 binoculars, but he heard those American voices

 coming through the radio speaker. The microphones were on

 the bridge.

 "Any time, Tomasea"...he said.

 Tomas keyed the radio transmit button three

 times. A flower of red and yellow fire blossomed

 in the darkness.

 Santana aimed the binoculars and focused them as the

 last of the explosions faded. He could see the

 flicker of flames as they spread aboard

 Nuestra Sefiora de Colon,

 These Americans! So predictable! Santana

 chuckled as he watched.

 "Into the oceanea"...Jake shouted.

 Toad vaulted over the rail into the blackness. As

 he fell he wondered if there were rocks

 or salt water below.

 Toad Tarkington and Jake Grafton were in

 midair when the bridge exploded behind them. Jake

 felt the thermal pulse and the first concussion.

 Then the dark, cool water closed over his head and

 he went completely under.

 As he began to rise toward the surface, he felt

 more explosions from inside the ship. The concussions

 reached him through the water like spent punches from a

 prizefighter.

 STEPHEN COONTS

 When he got his head above water, flames

 illuminated the night.

 Above the noise of the explosions and flames, he could

 hear Tarkington cursing.

 After Rita pulled them out of the ocean and flew them

 back to the carrier, Toad Tarkington and Jake

 Grafton were checked in sick bay, then they showered

 and tried to snatch a few hours' sleep.

 Toad gave up on sleeptoo much adrenaline.

 He lay in his bunk thinking about leaping over the

 bridge rail without knowing whether rocks or water

 lay beneath, and he shivered. The shock of the impact with the

 water had been almost a deliverance.

 He turned on the light and looked at the photos

 of Rita and Tyler he had taped to the bulkhead.

 Really stupid, Toad-man, really stupid.

 Grafton must have checked the location of the rocks,

 knew where he could jump and where he couldn't, and you

 never once thought to look.

 He got up, dressed, and headed for the computers, where

 he typed out a classified E-mail for the people at the

 National Security Agency. After breakfast he was

 ready to brief Jake Grafton and Gil

 Pascal.

 "Before she was stranded,

 Nuestra Senora de Colon

 went into this little Cuban port at the west end of

 Bahia de Nipe. She was there for six hours, then

 she steamed out and went on the rocks where we found her.

 If you look at this satellite photo you can see

 a boat nearby, probably taking the crew off after

 she piled up. The folks at NSA in Fort

 Meade say they can see ropes from the ship to this boat

 that the crewmen could slide down."

 Toad Tarkington stood back so Jake

 Grafton and Gil Pascal could study the

 satellite photos that he had pinned

 to a bulletin board in the mission planning

 spaces.

 "Where are the weapons now"..."...Gil Pascal asked.

 "In this fish warehouse."...Toad pointed at the

 photo with the tip of a pencil. "Right here."

 "It's an easy SEAL targetea"...the Chief of

 Staff commented.

 "Too easyea"...Jake Grafton said, then

 regretted it.

 "When did the freighter reach this port?"

 "Noon, three days ago."

 "And they spent the afternoon off-loading it?"

 "Yes. It went onto the rocks that night."

 "Too easy."...ationow he was sure.

 "What do you mean?"

 "These people aren't stupid. They know about satellite

 reconnaissance; they knew we would see them

 off-loading the ship in this port; they wanted us to see

 that. The question is, Why did they go to all the trouble of

 putting on a show for us? What are they hiding?"

 Toad flipped through die satellite photos,

 looking at date-time groups. "Here is the ship coming

 into the bay, there it is against the pier at Antilla,

 here it iseabbing offloaded, here is an IR photo

 of it going out to the rocks after dark, here is an IR

 shot of the freighter and the boat that probably

 took the crew off."

 "Radar images?"

 Toad had a handful of those too.

 "I want to know where this ship was between the time the

 destroyer left it and the time it showed up in this Cuban

 port."

 "NSA is still working on that stuff. Perhaps in a few

 hours, sirea"...Toad said.

 "Call me."

 "The weapons weren't on the shipea"...the national

 security adviser told the president in the Oval

 Office. "The ship was empty when it went on the

 rocks. Apparently the Cubans

 booby-trapped itthe thing exploded a few minutes

 after the admiral went aboard to inspect it."

 "Casualties?"

 "None; sir. We were lucky. If the admiral

 had taken more people with him, I can't say the results

 would have been the same."

 "So where are the weapons?"

 "NSA thinks they are in a warehouse on the

 waterfront in the center of the town of Antilla.

 They are studying the satellite sensor data now."

 "Shitff"...sd the president.

 William Henry Chance and Tommy Carmellini

 ate dinner in the main restaurant of the largest

 casino on the Malecon. The fact that 99 percent

 of the Cubans on the island didn't eat this well was

 on Chance's mind as he watched the waiter caret

 come and go amid the tables filled with European

 diners. Plenty amid poverty, an old Cuban

 story so common as to be unremarkable.

 Carmellini merely played with his food; he was too

 tense to enjoy eating, had too much on his mind.

 Chance tried to concentrate on a superb string

 quartet playing classical music in the corner

 of the room.

 To the best of his knowledge, he and Carmellini had not been

 followed on their expeditions around the capital, although

 he knew very well that a really first-class

 surveillance would be impossible to detect. With enough

 men, enough radios and automobiles, the subjects

 could be kept in sight at all times yet no one would

 be directly behind them, following where they could be seen

 or noticed. The subjects would seem to be alone,

 moving of their own will through the urban environment, yet

 their isolation would be an illusion.

 He knew all that, yet he could detect no

 tails or signs of people that might be

 watching, taking an interest in him or Carmellini.

 Chance was no neophytehe had a great

 deal of experience in this line of work, he knew what

 was possible and he knew what was likely.

 He thought about all these things as the flawlessly

 decked-out Cuban waiter served coffee. The

 music formed a backdrop to the babble of conversation from

 his fellow diners, who were gabbing in at least five

 languages, perhaps six.

 Chance sipped the coffee, let his eyes wander the

 room. No one was paying the slightest attention. Not

 a single furtive glance, no hastily broken eye

 contact, no one studiously ignoring him.

 Well, if he and Carmellini were going to do it, tonight

 was the night. The longer they stayed in Havana, the more

 likely it was that they would attract the interest of the

 Department of State Security, the secret

 police. The interest of Santana and Alejo

 Vargas.

 The truth was that Vargas might have burned them, might

 have devoted the resources necessary to learn everything about

 them. Vargas or his minions might be waiting tonight in

 the science hall, waiting to catch them redhanded,

 to embarrass the United States, perhaps even

 to execute Chance and Carmellini as

 spies.

 In this line of work the imponderables were always huge,

 risks impossible to quantify. Still, he and

 Carmellini were going to have to look inside that building,

 see what was there.

 If there was a biological weapons program in

 Cuba, it had to be in that building, which housed the

 largest, bestequipped laboratory known to be on the

 island. And the most knowledgeable people were nearby, the

 microbiologists and chemists and skilled lab

 technicians that would be needed to produce large

 quantities of microorganisms.

 Chance was well aware that the most serious technical

 problem a researcher faced when constructing a

 biological weapon was how to keep the

 microorganisms alive inside a warhead or

 aerosol bomb for long periods of time. Some

 biological agents were easier to store than others,

 which

 was why they were most often selected for weapons

 research. For example, the spores of anthrax were

 very stable, as were the spores of the fungal disease

 coccidioidomycosis, which incapacitated but rarely

 killed its victims. Of course, the

 naturally occurring strains of an infectious disease

 could have been altered to make the microorganisms more

 stable, more virulent, or to overcome widespread

 immunity: years ago researchers produced a

 highly infective strain of poliomyelitis

 virus for just these reasons.

 Idly he wondered about the microbiologist who

 ran the program. Who was he? What were his

 motivations? Perhaps that question answered itself in a

 totalitarian society, but it was worth researching,

 when he had some time. If he ever had some time.

 "Ready"..."...Chance muttered to Carmelliniea"...who drained

 the last of his coffee.

 The two men paid their bill in cash and left the

 casino. They got into a car parked at the curb, one

 driven by one of their associates, and sped off into the

 night.

 In a dark, deserted lane on the outskirts of the

 city the car in which Chance and Carmellini rode met the

 former telephone van they had used before, but now it

 bore the logo of a wholesale food supplier.

 Inside the van Carmellini and Chance changed

 into black trousers, a black pullover shirt with a

 high collar, black socks, and black

 rubber-soled shoes. When they were dressed,

 they sat listening to the insects, drinking water,

 monitoring a radio frequency. One of their

 colleagues was observing the science building at the

 university. He checked in every fifteen minutes.

 So far he had seen nothing out of the ordinary.

 "Why did you get into this line of work"..."...Chance asked

 Carmellini as they sat listening to the chirp of

 crickets.

 "The challenge of it, I guess. I had an

 uncle who cracked a few safes... he was a

 legendary figure. The only time he ever went to the

 pen was for tax evasion: he did a couple

 years that time. I was always asking him questions. He

 told me if I wanted to be a safecracker, go

 to work for a firm that manufactured and installed the

 things. That was good advice. I installed safes for

 several summers while I was in college, got

 too cocky for my own good. Thought I had this stuff

 figured out, you know? One thing led to another, and before you

 know it I was cracking the things."

 Chance nodded.

 "Here I am still at it. Only this time I won't go

 to the pen if they catch me."

 "Yeah. The Cubans will probably execute us as

 soon as Vargas gets through with us, if

 there's anything left to execute."

 "The way I figure it, I finally made the big

 leagues."

 "You optimists, always looking on the bright side."

 "Which brings up a point. You got us garroting

 wires and knives and pistols. I never carry

 weapons. I'm a safecracker, not a killer."

 "You'll probably become a dead safecracker

 if they catch you in there."

 "I've never carried weapons. Ever."

 "A wise precaution if you are burgling

 gentlemen's safes. You're in the major leagues

 now."

 "Listen, Chance"

 "This isn't a game, Tommy. Speaking for myself,

 I want to keep breathing. You'll do as I say."

 The driver parked the van in an alley near the

 science building. He sat hunched over the wheel

 watching people on the sidewalks as Chance and

 Carmellini examined the building through binoculars.

 They were behind him, in the body of the van, looking forward

 through the windshield.

 The way in, they decided, was through the roof. To get

 there, they would need to go into the building beside the science

 building, a lecture hall, ascend to the

 top floor, then get access to the roof. From here they

 would need to cross to the roof of the science hall, then

 find a way in.

 The lecture hall was locked at night, though it was

 not guarded.

 It was one in the morning when the van stopped in the

 empty alley behind the lecture hall. The two men

 in back pulled on latex disgloves, swung on

 backpacks, then went out the van's side door.

 The door was not wired with an alarm. Carmellini

 picked the lock in thirty seconds, and they were in.

 The van drove away as the door closed behind mem.

 They stood in the darkness letting their eyes adjust

 to the gloom.

 Carmellini led off. Behind him Chance took out his

 pistol and thumbed off the safety, keeping the pistol

 pointed downward at the floor.

 The weak light filtering through windows in classrooms

 and thence through open doors to the hallway did little

 to alleviate the darkness. The floors were uncarpeted

 concrete, the walls massive masonry, the

 ceilings at least twelve feet high. The building

 was devoid of decoration or even a trace of

 architectural imagination.

 Carmellini moved like a shadow, making no

 detectable noise. Chance seemed to be making enough

 noise for both of them. He could hear himself breathing and

 his heart pounding, could hear the echoes of his

 footfalls

 in

 the cavernous hallways.

 Keeping near the wall, they climbed the stairs to the

 second floor. Carmellini moved slowly,

 steadily, listened carefully before turning every corner,

 then lowered his head, keeping it well below the place

 one would naturally look for it, and peeped around the

 corner. Then he slithered around the corner out of

 sight; Chance followed as silently as he could.

 The top of the staircase put them out on the fourth

 floor of the building. There had to be another

 staircase, probably very narrow, leading to the roof.

 Where might it be?

 Carmellini was ready to go explore when he suddenly

 held up his hand. He held a finger to his lips.

 Chance listened with all the concentration he could muster.

 He

 could

 hear something! Voices? Carmellini slowly inched

 along the hallway toward an open door, then

 froze there.

 He came back down the hajlway to Chance, put his

 lips against Chance's ear. "A couple of kids

 making love."

 The silenced Ruger felt heavy in Chance's hand.

 "Gonna kill 'em?"

 Not shooting them was a risk, sure.

 Chance listened carefully. The lovers were whispering.

 No other sounds.

 "Find the stairs up."

 The stairs were at the end of a hall, behind a locked

 door. Carmellini worked on the lock in the darkness

 for almost a minute before he pulled the door open.

 They closed the door behind them and climbed the totally

 dark staircase, feeling their way. They ended up in

 a stuffy, black attic. Chance used the

 flashlight. Furniture, desks, chairs,

 stacked everywhere. In the middle of the attic was another

 stairway up.

 The door to the roof was also locked, this time with a

 padlock, which was on the interior side of the door.

 "What if there is a padlock on the other

 side"..."...Chance asked.

 "Then we're screwed. Unless you want to kick this

 thing down."

 "No."

 "Let's try to get this lock open, then the door."

 "Okay."

 The lock was rusty, corroded. After several

 minutes" effort Carmellini admitted his defeat

 and used a wire saw to cut through the metal loop of the

 lock. That took two minutes of intense effort but

 didn't make much noise, considering.

 With the lock off and hasp pulled back, they pushed

 at the door. It refused to open. With both men

 heaving, the

 door slowly opened with great resistance, and groaned

 terribly.

 "That'll wake the deadea"...Chance muttered, and wiped the

 sweat from his face as Carmellini slipped out onto

 the roof.

 Chance followed along.

 The metal roof sloped away steeply in several

 different planes. Moving on hands and knees they

 worked themselves over toward the edge that faced the science

 building.

 "Let me do thisea"...Carmellini whispered, and

 extracted the rope from his backpack. "Get out of the

 way, up by the door."

 Chance went.

 The glare of the city and the streetlights below

 illuminated the roof quite well, too well in fact.

 While it was easy to see where to walk, anyone below

 who bothered to look could probably see the black

 shapes silhouetted against the glare of the sky.

 Chance huddled against the dormer that formed the staircase

 up from the attic. He watched Carmellini on the

 edge of the roof, shaking out the rope, checking the

 grappling hook. Now he began to twirl the hook

 above his head, letting out more and more line to make the

 hook swing an ever-larger circle. Just as it seemed

 the ckcle was impossibly wide, he cast the line

 and hook across the chasm separating the buildings at a

 metal vent sticking up out of the roof.

 The hook made an audible metallic sound as it

 hit the far roof, then it began sliding off.

 Carmellini quickly pulled in line in huge coils,

 but too late to stop the grappling hook from sliding

 off the roof.

 He kept pulling on the line. In seconds he

 had the hook in his hand and bent down against the roof.

 Someone was down below. Even back here Chance could hear

 voices. He scanned the surrounding roofs, the

 streets that he could see, the blank windows looking

 at him from other buildings.

 Minutes ticked by, the voices below

 faded.

 Now Carmellini was standing, swinging the rope and hook,

 now casting it... and it caught! He tugged at it,

 worked his way back up the roof to where Chance was

 kneeling.

 Carmellini put the disend of the rope around the dormer,

 pulled it as taut as possible, then tied it off.

 "Well, there is our way acrossea"...the younger man said.

 "You want to go first, or should I?"

 "Anchored solid, is it?"

 "You bet."

 "Age before beautyea"...Chance said, and tugged on leather

 gloves, wrapped his hands around the rope. He worked

 out hand over hand, then draped his lower legs over the

 rope. His backpack dangled from his shoulders.

 Hanging from the rope like this took a surprising amount

 of physical strength. The rope sagged dangerously

 with his weight, becoming a vee with him at the bottom,

 which made it more difficult to move along it.

 Gritting his teeth, trying to keep his breathing even,

 William Henry Chance worked his way along the

 rope, taking care not to look down. At one point

 he knew he was over the chasm but it didn't

 matter: if he slipped off the rope the fall would

 kill him, whether he hit the roof and slid

 off or missed it clean.

 He kept going, doggedly, straining every muscle,

 until he felt the bag dragging along the roof of the

 science building. Only then did he unhook his

 legs from the rope and let them down to the roof. Still

 pulling on the rope, he heaved himself up by the vent and

 grabbed it.

 The grappling hook was holding by one tong. He

 wrapped the rope around the vent and set the hook, then

 tugged several times to make sure it would hold.

 Wiping his forehead, he breathed heavily three or

 four times. He had one hand on the rope, so he

 felt the tension increase with Carmellini's weight.

 He peered at the other

 building. Carmellini came scurrying along the

 rope like a goddamn chimpanzee.

 The younger man was over the gap between the buildings when the

 rope broke, apparently where it was anchored atop

 the lecture hall. Carmellini's body fell

 downward in an arc and disappeared from view. An

 audible thud reached Chance as Carmellini's body

 smacked against the side of the science building.

 "Our Lady of Coldn

 was under this storm system; out of sight of the

 satellites passing over, for six

 hours," Toad Tarkuigton explained to Jake

 Grafton. They were bent over a table in Mission

 Planning, studying satellite radar images.

 "When next it reappeared, it was steaming for Bahia

 de Nipe at twelve knots, yet its average

 speed of advance while it was out of sight was two

 knots."

 "Two?"

 'Two."...Toad showed him the positions and

 measurements.

 "So it was stopped somewhere."

 "Or made a detour."

 "What if the ship rendezvoused with another ship and the

 warheads were transferred?"

 "Possible, but if you look at these other ship

 tracks, it doesn't seem very likely. All these

 other tracks were going somewhere, with speed-of-advance

 averages that seem plausible."

 "Okay. What if the ship stopped and the crew

 dumped some of the weapons in the water? Maybe all

 of them. Dumped them in shallow water for someone

 to pick up later. How deep is the water in that

 area?"

 "That area is the Bahamas, Admiral. Pretty

 shallow in a lot of places in there."

 "Have NSA put that area under intense surveillance.

 Have them study every satellite image since that storm

 passed. If those warheads were dumped overboard from the

 Colon,

 someone is going to come along to pick them up.

 We have to get there before that somebody gets them

 aboard."

 "Yes, sir."

 "Ask Atlantic Fleet to get a P-3 out

 to that area as soon as possible, have the crew search for

 anchored or stationary ships. Any ships not actually

 under way. Understand?"

 "Yes, sir."

 Jake Grafton rubbed his forehead, trying

 to decide if there was anything else he should be doing.

 "Uh, Admiral..."...Toad began, his voice

 low. "I want to thank you for saving my assets

 last night. I about had a heart attack after we

 jumped over that rail, everything behind us blowing up,

 wondering if we were going to go into the water or

 splatter ourselves on a rock pile. That was truly

 a religious experience."

 A wry grin crossed Jake Grafton's face.

 "Wish I had paid more attention to where those rocks were

 before crunch time arrived. Talk about jumping

 out of the frying pan into the fire! For a few seconds

 mere I thought we had had the stroke."

 "You didn't know"..."...Toad was aghast.

 "What say we don't mention this to Rita or

 Callie"..."...Jake said, and walked away. He had

 another meeting to attend.

 William Henry Chance grabbed the rope, which

 extended over the side on the science building roof

 into the darkness. The rope was still taut. Tommy

 Carmellini must be hanging on the end of it!

 Chance braced himself and began pulling, hand over hand,

 and almost ruptured himself.

 He got no more than six feet of rope up when

 he realized he wasn't in the right position. Moving

 carefully, he braced himself against the vent pipe and

 got the rope over his shoulders. Now he used his

 whole body to help raise it.

 Two more feet. , Four.

 A dark spot, a head, coining above the eave,

 struggling to climb.

 Chance held the rope steady as Carmellini heaved

 himself over the edge of the roof and began crawling up the

 slope, still holding onto the rope.

 "Man, I thought I had bit the big

 oneea"...Carmellini said between gasps. Leaning

 against the chimney, Chance blew equally hard.

 "I'm getting too old for this shitea"...Carmellini

 muttered.

 "Next time get a desk job."

 "Why in hell do you think I went to law school?"

 Chance coiled the rope and inspected it. It had

 frayed through where it was wrapped around the dormer on the

 other building. He showed the place to Carmellini,

 then put the rope in his knapsack.

 "Let's go."

 Carmellini used a glass cutter on a pane of a

 dormer window, then they went in.

 Chance took a chance and used the flashlight. This

 attic was stacked with laboratory equipment:

 dishes, warmers, mixing units, microscopes, a

 spectrometer, a bunch of equipment large and

 small that he couldn't identify.

 "Let's put on our masksea"...Chance said, "just

 in

 case."

 They donned the gas masks, made sure the filter

 elements were on tight. The mask could provide

 only filtered air: it had an inhalation and

 exhalation valve and a black faceplate with two

 large clear lens to see through. The mask was

 attached to a hood that went over the head and shoulders

 of the user. Pull strings sealed the hood so air could

 not get in around the user's neck. When they had the

 mask on, both men removed the leather gloves they

 had been wearing and donned a pair of latex

 gloves. They stuffed their trousers inside their

 socks.

 With Carmellini in the lead, the two men stealthily

 descended the stairs.

 STEPHEN COONTS

 The laboratory was in the basement, so Chance and

 Carmellini had to pass through the main floor to get

 there.

 The elevator would be the best way from the top of the

 building to the bottom, but it might be monitored from

 the guards" station at the main entrance. Certainly it

 should be: nothing could be simpler than to have a warning

 light come on when the electric motor that ran the

 elevator engaged. Chance and Carmellini took the

 stairs.

 Carmellini was leading the way now. Using'the

 flashlight, he examined the door to the staircase for

 alarms, then opened the door a crack and examined the

 stairwell. Fortunately the stairwell was lit.

 If this building were hi the States it would be

 festooned with infrared sensors, motion detectors,

 microphones, and remote cameras controlled from a

 central station. However, this was Cubit

 At each landing, Carmellini extended a small

 periscope and looked around the corner.

 On the second floor his inspection of the stairs

 leading down revealed a camera mounted on a wall

 above the landing, focused on the door in from the main

 floor. There was probably a camera mounted above the

 door to the main floor, a camera that looked back

 toward this camera.

 Carmellini studied the camera through the periscope,

 twisted the magnification to the maximum and

 refocused. He kept the instrument steady by bracing

 himself against the wall.

 The security camera was fifteen or twenty years

 old if it was a day. No doubt there were ten or

 twelve cameras on a sequential switch, so the

 video from each one was shown in turn on a monitor

 at the guard's station. The guard was probably reading

 something, eating, talking to another guard, if he was

 paying any attention at all.

 From his backpack Carmellini removed a strobe

 unit and battery. He plugged the thing together,

 switched on the battery, and waited for the

 capacitor to charge. The bulb had a set of

 silver metal feathers around it so that the light could be

 focused. Carmellini tightened the feathers around the

 bulb as much as they would go. When the capacitor's

 green light came on, he eased the light around the

 comer, exposing his head for the first time. One quick squint

 to line up the light, then holding the thing tightly against

 the wall to steady it, he retracted his head, closed

 his eyes and buried his head in the crook of his arm.

 William Henry Chance did likewise. The

 short, intense burst of light should burn out the

 camera's light-level sensor, rendering it

 inoperative.

 The flash was so bright Carmellini saw it through his

 closed eyelids.

 The two men slipped down the stairs. Standing just under

 the camera that had just been disabled, Carmellini used the

 periscope again. Yes. Another camera, just over the

 door to the main floor.

 He waited ten more seconds for the capacitor

 to fully charge, then stuck it around the corner and

 flashed the light.

 "Let's

 go!"

 With Chance behind him, Tommy Carmellini

 went down the stairs to the main floor and used his

 periscope to examine the landing on the stairs leading

 down. Nothing.

 On down to the landing, peeking around the corner.

 "Motion detectorea"...he whispered to Chance.

 Chance was breathing heavily inside the mask. It

 wasn't the exertion, he decided, but the tension. He

 must be audible at fifty paces. He tried

 to ignore the sound of his own rasping and listen.

 were the guards coming? Two cameras were down had they

 noticed? Would they come to inspect the things?

 Or were the guards congregating right now, calling in

 troops?

 "Microwave or infrared"..."...Chance asked, referring

 to the motion detector.

 "One of each."

 "Beautiful."

 "Probably two independent systems."

 "Oh, Christ!"

 "That's a poor way to install them, actually. This

 is old

 technology,

 Mission Impossible

 stuff. We'll just walk by the infrared

 detectorsall this clothing will help shield

 our body heat. If we move right along we should be

 okay."

 "And the microwave system?"

 Carmellini had already removed a device the size

 of a portable CD player from his backpack.

 "Jammerea"...he said, and examined the controls.

 He turned it on and, holding it in front of him,

 walked down to the motion detectors. The one on the

 left was the microwave one, with a coaxial cable

 leading away from it. Carmellini pulled the cable an

 inch or so away from the wall and wedged the jammer into that

 space.

 "Come onea"...he whispered, and opened the door into the

 basement.

 The two men found themselves in a hallway.

 Directly over-their head was a camera that pointed the

 length of the hall, covering the door halfway down that

 must lead into the lab.

 Carmellini took a small battery-powered

 camcorder from Chance's backpack. He held it

 under the security camera for about a minute, filming the

 view down the hallway, then pushed the play

 button. The device now replayed the same scene

 on a continuous loop, and would do so until the

 batteries were exhausted. He slid a

 collar around the coaxial cable leading from the camera,

 tightened it, then used a pair of wire cutters

 to slice the coax away from the security camera.

 The door into the lab had an alarm on it, one mounted

 high.

 "The alarm rings if the circuit is

 brokenea"...Carmellini whispered. "It's designed

 to prevent unauthorized exit from the lab, not entry.

 Won't take a minute."

 He worked swiftly with a penknife and length of

 wire. By wiring around the contact on the door and

 jamb, he made the contact impossible to break.

 Sixty seconds later he gingerly tried the

 door. Reached for the handle and

 Locked!

 Now to work with the picks.

 "They locked an emergency exit"..."...Chance demanded.

 "Yeah. Real bastards, huh?"

 Tommy Carmellini knew his business. When the

 lock clicked, he put his picks back in his

 knapsack, pulled the knapsack into position, and

 palmed his pistol.

 "You ready?"

 "Yeah."

 Carmellini eased the door open, looked

 quickly each way with just one eye around the jamb.

 The door opened into a well-lit foyer. The entire

 opposite wall of the room was made of thick

 glass, which formed a wall of a large,

 well-equipped laboratory. No people in sight.

 And no security cameras or motion detectors.

 Both men came in, pistols in their hands and pointed

 at the floor. Chance pulled the ddor shut behind them.

 They knelt by the long window and with just their heads sticking

 up, surveyed the scene.

 Row after row of culture trays, units for mixing

 chemicals, deep sinks, storage cabinets, big

 sterilizing units, stainless steel containers by the

 dozen, analysis equipment, retorts,

 microscopes ...

 "Holy damnea"...Carmellini said softly. "They are

 sure as hell growing something in there."

 "Somethingea"...Chance agreed.

 On the end of the room to their left was a large air

 lock.

 "That's the way in."

 "Do we have to go in?"

 "We need samples from those culture trays."

 Chance led the way. He walked, holding the pistol

 down by his right thigh.

 Around the corner slowly, looking first.

 There were actually two air locks. After they went

 through the first one, they found themselves in a dressing room

 with a variety of white one-piece coveralls hanging

 on nails. Each man donned one, pulling it on

 over his

 STEPHEN COONTS

 clothes, then zipping it tightly, fastening the cuffs with

 Velcro strips. Gas masks were there too, but they

 were already wearing masks.

 The second lock was equipped with a large vacuum

 machine which suctioned dust and microorganisms from the

 white coveralls.

 They opened the door to the lab and stepped inside.

 "The culture traysea"...Chance said, and led the way.

 From his backpack he took syringes, quickly

 screwed on needles.

 The glass trays sat on mobile racks, three

 dozen to a rack. They were readily transparent, so

 he could look inside, see the bacteria growing on

 the food mix at the bottom of the tray.

 He selected a rack of trays, pulled one

 tray from the rack and laid it on the marble-topped

 counter nearby. He opened it. Used a syringe.

 With the syringe about half-full, he

 unscrewed the needle, deposited the syringe in a

 plastic freezer bag and sealed it.

 Meanwhile Carmellini had been exploring. As

 Chance sealed up his second sample from this rack of

 trays, Carmellini came back, motioning with his

 hand. "Better come look. Looks like they are growing

 several kinds of cultures."

 The second kind looked similar to the first, but the

 organisms were of. a slightly different color.

 Chance selected a tray, took a sample, then

 replaced the tray on the rack, as he had the first

 one.

 He was finishing his second sample from this batch when,

 out of the corner of his eye, he saw Carmellini

 motion for him to get down.

 He dropped to a sitting position, finished sealing the

 syringe bag.

 He put the samples into his knapsack, reached

 up on the countertop for his pistol.

 Carmellini was creeping along below the counter with his

 pistol in his hand.

 Someone was in the air lock. By looking down the

 aisle

 between the counters Chance could just see the top of his head as

 he pulled on the gas mask in the dressing

 room.

 Whoever it was was coming in.

 Carmellini looked at Chance, lifted his hands in a

 query: Now what?

 Chance made a downward motion. Maybe this person

 would just come in, get something, then leave.

 It would be impossible, he decided, to sneak out

 while the person was in the lab. Although the lab was

 large, at least a hundred feet long, anyone in

 the air locks could be seen from anywhere in the lab

 unless the viewer was behind a piece of large

 equipment.

 Shit!

 Well, the Cubans were about to discover that their lab was

 no longer a secret. That was not a disaster;

 unfortunate, perhaps. Perhaps not.

 The person coming in wore a complete protection

 suit and mask. Not a square inch of skin was

 exposed.

 Large for a woman. A man, probably. Almost

 six feet. Hard to tell body weight under a bag

 suit like that, but at least 180 pounds.

 He checked the safety on the pistol. On. With his

 thumb he moved it to the off position, checked it

 visually.

 Now the person was coming out of the air lock, walking

 purposefully down the aisle between the counters and

 trays of cultures.

 William Henry Chance stood up, pointed the

 pistol straight in the face of the masked person

 walking toward him.

 The man froze. If it was a man. Stopped dead

 and slowly raised his hands.

 Out of the corner of his eye Chance saw Tommy

 Carmellini moving toward the Cuban.

 "Find something to tie him withea"...he said loudly, hoping

 Carmellini would understand his muffled voice.

 Carmellini seemed to. He held up a roll of

 duct tape. He

 moved toward the man, who turned his head so that he

 could get a good look at Carmellini.

 Garmellini had his pistol in his hand. His holster was

 under the white coverall, as was Chance's, so both men

 had carried their pistols with them in their hands.

 Now Carmellini placed the pistol on a counter,

 well out of the man's reach. He walked behind him.

 The man pushed backward, slamming Carmellini

 against a counter.

 Damnation! Chance couldn't shoot for fear of hitting

 Carmellini. As if the .22-caliber

 bullets in the Ruger would drop a big man at this

 distance.

 Chance walked around the counter, up the aisle, intending

 to shoot the Cuban in the head from as close as he could

 get.

 Carmellini kicked violently and the Cuban went

 flying back into a rack of culture trays.

 Three or four of the trays fell from the rack and

 shattered on the floor.

 The man launched himself at Carmellini, who ducked

 under a right cross. The man kept right on going,

 heading for the pistol lying on the counter.

 Carmellini caught him by the back of his coverall and

 swung him bodily around. With a mighty punch he

 sent the man reeling backward, straight into the rack

 of culture trays he had already bit. The man

 slipped, fell amid the broken glass.

 Without sights, wearing the silencer, the Ruger was hard

 to aim. Chance squeezed off a round anyway. Where

 the bullet went he never knew.

 Before he could fire again the man screamed in agony.

 All his muscles went rigid. He bent over

 backward, screaming in a high-pitched wail.

 "Let's goff"...Carmellini yelled.

 The man got control of an arm. He

 tore at his mask, trying to get it off, all the

 while screaming and thrashing around on the floor amid

 the broken glass.

 "Holy shit."

 The stricken man finally just ran out of air. All

 motion stopped. He was bent over backward, almost

 double, his head within a few inches of his heels.

 Careful not to step on the broken glass, Chance bent

 over the man. He carefully took off the gas

 mask.

 Eyes rolled back in his head, every muscle taut

 in a fierce rigor, the man seemed almost frozen.

 "He must have torn his suitea"...Chance muttered to himself.

 The Cubans must have vaccinated everyone with access.

 Why didn't the vaccination protect him?

 "Let's get our asses through the air lock and get

 the fuck outta hereea"...Carmellini said loudly.

 They stood in the vacuum room for the longest time,

 neither man willing to be the first to leave.

 "We must goea"...Carmellini said at last, after almost

 ten minutes of suction, after using a high-pressure

 jet of air from a hose to blast every nook and fold

 of the coverall.

 They hung the coveralls on the nails. Stood in

 the next air lock, were vacuumed again, then

 they were out, still wearing their gas masks.

 "We might kill everyone in Havanaea"...Chance said.

 "We'll never know itea"...Carmellini shot back.

 "We'll be in hell before they are."

 "Can't figure out why the vaccination didn't

 protect him."

 "Later. How the hell are we going to get out of

 here?"-

 "The easiest way is to just walk out the front

 door, shoot both the guards, and walk around the

 corner to the van."

 "They'll see us going up the stairs."

 "The elevator. We'rl use the elevator.

 Keep the pistols where they can't see them."

 "You are fucking-A crazy, man. One crazy

 motherfucker."

 The elevator was right there with the door open. Chance

 walked in. When Carmellini was aboard, he pushed

 the button to take it up.

 With their pistols down by their legs, they walked out

 of the elevator, straight for the guard shack at the

 front door.

 Only one man was there, reading something. He looked

 up as they approached. Now he stood.

 "Que

 pasa"..."...he began, and Chance shot him in the forehead from

 six feet away.

 The guard toppled over backward.

 Chance and Carmellini kept going, out the door at a

 walking pace, down the sidewalk under the

 streetlights looking like two refugees from a flying

 saucer, and around the corner. They jerked open the rear

 door of the van and jumped in.

 Chance ripped off the mask.

 "Let's get the hell outta hereea"...he roared at the

 driver, who was as surprised at their sudden

 appearance as the guard had been. "Drive, damn

 it, drive!"

 As the van jostled and swayed through the city streets,

 they sat in the back staring at each other, waiting for the

 disease to hammer them.

 Waited, and waited, and waited...

 Six hours after William Henry Chance and

 Tommy Carmellini walked out of the University of

 Havana science building, Dr. Bouchard was on his

 way to Washington via Mexico City with two of the

 culture samples in his diplomatic pouch.

 Three hours later one of the lowest-ranking mission

 employees with diplomatic status left on a

 plane to Freeport, there to transfer to a

 flight to Miami, and then on to Washington. This

 employee carried the other two samples in her

 diplomatic pouch.

 Chance and Carmellini were dropped at their hotel after

 changing clothes in the van. "Burn those clothes

 immediately, and don't touch them with your bare handsea"...Chance

 told the driver.

 At the hotel both men went straight to their rooms,

 stripped, and stood in the shower for as long as they could

 stand it.

 Standing under the shower head Chance waited for the first

 symptom to announce its arrival. Every now and then

 he shuddered, despite the hot water, as cold

 chills ran up and down his spine. He had a raging

 headache. When he got out of the shower he toweled himself

 dry, got in bed and arranged a wet, cool

 washcloth across his forehead.

 The lab worker writhing on the floor, the startled

 face of the guard the instant before he died^the scenes

 played over and over in his mind. The death throes of the

 lab worker were bad enough, but the face of the guard, when

 he saw the pistol rising, saw the silencer, knew

 Chance was going to shoot:

 that

 face Chance would carry to his grave.

 He shouldn't have had to kill the guard. The truth of the

 matter was that he panicked when the lab worker died

 horribly; he stood in the air locks thinking he

 or Carmellini would be next, any second. He

 had wanted out of that building so badly he had thrown

 caution to the wind and bolted blindly for the front door.

 It was a miracle that there weren't two or three

 guards standing by the main entrance, that they didn't have

 guns out as the two figures from biological hell

 stepped out of the elevator.

 Ah, the stink of Lady Luck. greater-than

 Lying there in the darkness he thought about

 microorganisms, wondered what was in the sample

 vials, wondered why the lab worker, who must have been

 immunized, died such a painful, horrible death.

 One thing was certain: The Cubans were well on their

 way to having biological weapons. And the only

 conceivable target was the United States.

 With his head pounding, unable to sleep, he turned on

 his small computer and typed an E-mail reporting

 the intrusion and his findings. After he encrypted the

 message, he used the telephone on the desk

 to get on the Web and fire the message

 into cyberspace.

 Then he went back to bed, and finally

 to sleep.

 The American stood amid the shards of glass

 looking at the body of the lab worker. He wore a

 protective garment that covered him head to toe and a

 mask that filtered the air he breathed. He looked

 at everything, taking his tune, then exited the

 laboratory through the air lock.

 Alejo Vargas was waiting for him. He said nothing,

 merely waited for the American to talk.

 "The virus has apparently mutatedea"...the

 American said finally. "I thought the strain was stable,

 but..."...He gave the tiniest shrug.

 "Mutated?". "Possibly."

 "Come now, Professor. I have not asked for

 scientific proof. Tell me what you think."

 "A mutation. A few days with the electron

 microscope would give us some clues. We need

 to do more cultures to be sure. It would help if I

 could dissect the dead man, see how the disease affected

 him."

 "Like you did the others?"

 "You told me they were killers, condemned men. We

 had to

 knowl"

 "What if the disease gets away from you at

 the morgue? What if it spreads to the general

 population?"

 "With the proper precautions the danger is

 minuscule. Man, the advancement of human knowledge

 requires"

 "Noea"...Vargas said. He gestured to the lab. "If

 that gets away from us, for whatever reason, there won't

 be a human left alive on this island."

 "Then don't ask me for opinionsea"...the professor

 snapped. "You can guess as well as I."

 Alejo Vargas's eyes narrowed to slits. His

 voice was cold with fury. "I wanted to use an

 anthrax agent, but no, you insisted on

 poliomyelitis. Now you tell me it mutated, as

 I feared it might."

 The damned fool, the American thought. Of course

 he had insisted on a virusfor Christ's sake,

 bis life work was studying viruses, not bacteria.

 Vargas continued, pronouncing the sentence: "We

 spent all this money, built the warheads, installed

 them, and we took huge risks to do it Don't

 talk to me of acceptable

 risks."

 The professor was not the type to calmly submit

 to lectures from his intellectual

 inferiors. "Don't get wrathy with me, Vargas.

 You're a stupid, ignorant thug. I didn't

 design the universe and I can't take

 responsibility for it. I merely try to understand,

 to learn, to increase the store of man's knowledge."

 The American lost his temper at that point and

 splut-

 tered, "Biology isn't engineering, goddammit!

 Sometimes two plus two equals five."

 Vargas turned his back on the professor. He

 stared into the lab, which appeared cold and stark under the

 lights yet was full of poisonous life.

 "I don't understand what happened in thereea"...the

 American said. "He didn't just fall. It

 looks like there was a struggle."

 "Someone broke hiea"...Vargas said.

 The professor was horrified. "Broke in?

 Past the guards? Who would be so foolish?"

 "Someone who wanted to see what was in thereea"...Vargas

 said, and turned to look at the other man's face.

 A note of satisfaction crept into, his voice

 as he added, "Probably Americans, Perhaps

 C1A."

 The professor looked startled, as if the

 possibility had not crossed his mind.

 "Come, come, Professor, don't tell me you

 thought your work here hi Cuba would remain a secret

 forever."

 "I am a scientistea"...the American said. "Science

 is my life."

 Vargas snorted derisively. "Your lifeff"...he

 said softly, contemptuously.

 The professor lost it. "Foolff"...he shouted.

 "Idiot! You sit in this Third World cesspool and

 think this crap matters

 fooir

 "Perhapsea"...Vargas said coldly. He was used

 to Professor Svenson, an unrepentant

 intellectual snob, the very worst kind, and

 American to boot. "I would like to stay and trade

 curses with you today but there is no time. The workers are

 waiting outside. You are going to show them how to clean

 up the lab, then you will determine exactly what

 happened to the viruses. You will write down all that

 must be done to check the warheads. You will have the report

 handdelivered to me. If you fail to do exactly what

 J say, you will go into the crematorium with the lab

 worker. Do you understand me, Professor?"

 "You can't threaten me. I'm"

 Alejo Vargas flicked his fingers across the

 professor's cheek, merely a sting. He stared

 into his eyes. "You suffer from a regrettable

 delusion that you are irreplaceablest can cure that. If

 you wish, you can go to the crematorium right now. Two

 body bags are not much more trouble than one."

 ,

 When Vargas left, Olaf Svenson sat and hid

 his face in his hands.

 He had never thought past the scientific problems to the

 ones he now faced. Oh, he should have, of course:

 he knew that Vargas intended to put the virus

 into warheads. He shut his mind to the horrorhe

 wanted to see if the mutation could be controlled. No,

 he wanted to see if

 he

 could control the mutation of the viruses. The

 scientific challenges consumed him. Vargas had the

 money and the facilities Olaf Svenson wanted

 to do the research.

 He was going to have to get out of Cuba, and as soon as

 possible. The university thought he was in

 Europethat was where he would go. The CIA

 probably had no evidence, or not enough to prosecute

 him in an American court. If he went to the

 airport and took a plane now they

 probably would never get enoughVargas certainly

 wasn't going to be a willing witness.

 He waited a few minutes, long enough for Vargas

 to clear off upstairs, then stood and took a last

 fleeting look at the lab. With a sigh he turned his

 back on what might have been and walked to the

 elevator. In the lobby he took the time to give

 detailed instructions to the workers who would clean up the

 lab, answered the foreman's questions, then watched as they

 boarded the elevator. When the elevator door

 closed behind the workers, Professor Svenson nodded

 to the guards at the entrance of the building, set off

 down the street and never looked back.

 The P-3 Orion antisubmarine patrol

 plane flew over a sparkling- sea. The morning

 cumulus clouds would form in the

 STEPHEN COONTS

 trade winds in a few hours, but right now the sky was

 empty except for wisps of high stratus.

 The glory of the morning held no interest for the

 P-3's crew, which was examining an old freighter

 anchored in the lee of an l-shaped cay. A few

 palm trees and some thick brush covered the

 backbone of the little island, which had wide, white,

 empty beaches on all sides.

 "Whaddya think"..."...the pilot asked his copilot and the

 TACCO, the tactical coordinator, who was standing

 behind the center console.

 "Go lower and we'll get picturesea"...the TACCO

 suggested. He passed a video camera to the

 copilot.

 The pilot retarded the throttles and brought the

 plane around in a wide, sweeping turn to pass

 down the side of the freighter at an altitude of

 about two hundred feet. The copilot kept the

 video camera on the freighter, which was fairly

 small, about ten thousand tons, with peeling paint and a

 rusty waterline. A few sailors could be seen on

 deck, but no flags were visible.

 "I'll get on the hornea"...the TACCO told the

 pilot, "see if the folks in Norfolk can

 identify that ship. But first let's fly over the

 ship, get the planform from directly overhead."

 The TACCO knew that the computer sorted ship

 images by silhouettes and planforms, so having both

 views would speed up the identification process.

 Professor Olaf Svenson was standing in line at

 Havana airport to buy a ticket to Mexico

 City when he saw Colonel Santana arrive out

 front in a chauffeur-driven limousine.

 Through the giant windows he could clearly see

 Santana get out of the car, see the uniformed

 security guards salute, see the plainclothes

 security men with Santana move tourists out of the

 way.

 Svenson turned and rushed away in the other

 direction. He dove into the first men's room he

 saw and took refuge in an empty stall.

 Was Santana after him?

 The acrid smell of a public rest room filled

 his nostrils, permeated his clothing, made him feel

 unclean. He sat listening to the sounds: the door

 opening and closing as men came and went, feet

 scraping, water running, piss tinkling into urinals,

 muttered comments. Sweat trickled down his neck,

 soaking his shirt.

 Slam!

 Someone aggressively pushed the rest room door

 open until it smashed against the wall.

 The minutes crawled.

 Santana was an animal, Svenson thought, a

 sadist, a foul, filthy creature who loved to see

 fellow human beings in pain. Svenson had seen it

 in his eyes. Even the smallest of bad tidings was

 delivered with a malicious gleam. Svenson

 suspected that as a boy Santana had enjoyed

 torturing pets.

 What would Santana do to an overweight,

 middle-aged scientist from Colorado who tried

 to escape the country?

 The door slammed into the wall again, and Svenson

 jumped.

 Torture? Of course. Santana would want

 to inflict pain. Svenson felt his bowels get

 watery as he thought about the pain that Santana could

 dish out.

 Every sound caused him to move, to jump.

 He consulted his watch again. Just a few minutes had

 passed.

 O God, if you really exist, have mercy on me!

 Don't let Santana find me. Please!

 Home. He wanted to go home so badly. To his

 apartment and cats and flowers in planters. To his

 neat, safe little haven, where he could shut out the evil

 of the world.

 Someone slapped the side of the stall, said something

 unintelligible in Spanish. Probably wanted

 him to hurry up, to get out and let the next man

 in.

 Svenson made a retching sound. And almost

 lost his breakfast.

 He tried retching audibly again, less forcefully.

 The person standing beside the stall walked away, the

 door to the rest room opened and closed.

 Where was Santana?

 Maybe he wasn't coining. Surely by now if he

 were searching the terminal he would have looked into this

 restroom.

 Coukfit be?

 Or perhaps Santana was standing outside, waiting for

 him to come out, for the sheer joy of dashing his hopes when

 he thought the coast was clear. Santana would do a thing

 like that, Svenson told himself now.

 He felt so dirty, so wretched. He wiped at

 the sheen of sweat on his face, wiped his hands on his

 trousers.

 He watched the minute hand of his watch, watched it

 slowly circle the dial, counted the seconds as it

 moved along so effortlessly.

 With every passing minute that Santana didn't come he

 felt better. Yes. Perhaps he wasn't looking.

 He must not be. If he were looking he would have been

 hi this restroom, would have opened the door, would have

 jerked him from the stall and arrested him and put the cuffs

 on him and dragged him across the terminal and

 thrown him into a police car.

 But Santana didn't come.

 After an hour of waiting, Olaf Svenson began

 thinking about how he was going to get out of the country. He

 needed another passport. If he used his own, the

 security people might not let him through the immigration

 checkpoint.

 He pulled up his pants, washed his hands

 thoroughly, and went out into the main hall of the terminal.

 Keeping an eye out for Santana, he went to the

 ticket desk for Mexicana Airlines and stood

 where he could watch the agent When handed a passport,

 the man glanced up, comparing the face to the photo. Just

 a glance, but a glance would be enough. Using a stolen

 passport with a photo that didn't match his face was

 too much of a risk. Svenson knew he would have

 to use his own, dangerous though it would be.

 Screwing up his courage, Olaf Svenson got in

 line.

 "Ciudad Mejico, par favor."

 He handed the passport to the agent, who glanced

 into his face, then handed the passport back.

 An hour later Svenson went through the immigration

 line. The uniformed official didn't look up,

 merely compared the passport to a typed list

 that lay on his desk, then passed it back. He

 did not stamp the document.

 Olaf Svenson took a seat in the waiting area and

 used a filthy handkerchief to wipe perspiration from his

 forehead.

 A reprieve. The powers that rule the universe had

 granted him a reprieve.

 He would have liked to have had the opportunity to study the

 latest viral mutation, but the risk was just too great.

 A lost opportunity, he concluded. Oh, too

 bad, too bad.

 When the plane from Madrid touched down at

 Havana airport with Maximo Sedano aboard,

 Colonel Santana and two plainclothes secret

 police officers were there to meet him. They stood beside

 Maximo while he waited for his luggage, then the

 two junior men carried it to the car while Maximo

 walked beside Santana.

 Colonel Santana said nothing to the finance minister,

 other than to say Alejo Vargas wanted to see

 him, then he let the bastard stew. He had learned

 years ago that silence was a very effective weapon,

 one that cost nothing and caused grievous wounds in a

 guilty soul. All men are guilty, Santana

 believed, of secret sins if nothing

 else, and if left to suffer in silence will usually

 convince themselves that the authorities know everything. After

 a long enough silence, often all that remains to do is

 take down the confession and obtain a signature.

 One of his troops drove while Santana rode

 in the back of the car with his charge. Not a word was uttered

 the whole trip.

 Maximo seemed to be holding up fairly well,

 Santana thought, not sweating too much, retaining most

 of his color,

 breathing under control. The colonel smiled

 broadly, a smile that grew even wider- when he

 saw from the corner of his eye that Maximo Sedano

 had noticed it.

 Ah, yes. Silence. And terror.

 The car drove straight into the basement of the Ministry

 of Interior, where Maximo Sedano was hustled to a

 subterranean interrogation room.

 "I demand to see Vargasea"...Maximo said hotly

 when they shoved him into a chair and slammed the door

 shut.

 "You demand"..."...asked Santana softly, leaning forward

 until his face was only inches from Maximo. "You

 are in no position to demand. You may ask humbly,

 request, you may even pray, but you don't

 demand. You have no right to demand anything."

 Santana seated himself behind the desk, across from

 Maximo. He took out the interrogation form, filled

 out the blanks on the top of the sheet, then laid it

 on the scarred wood in front of him.

 "Whereea"...Santana asked, "is the money?"

 Maximo Sedano inhaled through his nose. He

 smelled dampness, urine, something rotting, meat or

 vegetable perhaps ... and something cold and slimy and

 evil. It was here, all around him, in this roomthe very

 stones reeked of it. Before Castro the secret

 police belonged to Fulgencio Batista, and before him

 Geraldo Machado, and so on, back for hundreds

 of years. This was a secret room that never saw the

 light, where justice did not exist, where force and

 venality and self-interest ruled. Here shadow men

 without conscience or scruple wrestled with the enemies

 of the dictator. The room reeked of fear and

 blood, torture and maiming, pain and death.

 Maximo pushed the images aside. With a tenuous

 composure, carefully, completely, honestly, he

 explained about the accounts and the German and the people at the

 bank. He related what they said to the best of his

 memory. He told about the ice pick and the men's

 room, everything,

 CUBA

 withholding only his intention of transferring the money

 to his own accounts.

 Santana had questions, of course, made him repeat

 most of it two or three times. When the colonel

 had it all written down, Maximo signed the

 statement.

 "Where are the transfer cards"..."...Santana asked.

 "In Switzerland. I left them at the bank."

 "Why?"

 "If there has been some mistake, if the money was

 stolen by someone at the bank, then the banks have

 valid, legal transfer orders they must honor.

 They must send the money to the Bank of Cuba."

 "So where is the money?"

 "It is not in those accounts, obviously. I think the

 money has been stolen."

 For the first time, Santana was openly skeptical.

 "By whom?"

 "By someone who had access to the account numbers.

 El Presidente

 insisted on keeping a record of them in his office.

 I would look there first."

 "Why not your office? Is it not possible

 one of your aides learned the numbers, passed them

 to someone

 who7"

 "All the numbers of the government's foreign accounts,

 including the accounts controlled exclusively by

 el Presidente,

 are kept in a safe in my office under my

 exclusive control. None of my staff has

 accessonly me."

 Again Santana smiled. "You realize, of course,

 that you are convicting yourself with your own mouth?"

 Maximo threw up his hands. "I tell you this,

 Santana. I do not have the money. If I had

 fifty-four million dollars I would not have taken

 the plane back to Cuba. I would not be sitting in this

 shithole talking to a shithead like you."

 Santana ignored the insult and jotted a few more

 lines on his report. Personally he believed

 Maximoif the man had the money he would have run like

 a rabbitbut to say so would give Maximo too much

 leverage. And Maximo

 said that he killed a man with an ice pick, which

 certainly seemed out of character. Santana raised an

 eyebrow as he thought about Rail. Maximo Sedano

 killing Railwell, the world is full of

 unexpected things.

 He left Maximo Sedano sitting in the chair in

 the niterrogation room while he went to find

 Vargas. The minister was in his office listening to a

 report of the laboratory burglary from one of the

 senior colonels, who had just returned from the

 university.

 Santana knew nothing of the burglary, had not been

 informed before he went to the airport. He stood

 listening, asked no questions, waited for Alejo

 Vargas.

 An hour passed before Vargas was ready to talk about

 Maximo. "He is downstairs in an interrogation

 roomea"...Santana said. "Here is his statement."...He

 passed it across. Vargas read it in silence.

 "The money is not hi the accountsea"...Vargas said

 finally.

 "So he says."

 "And you think he is telling the truth?"

 "Sir, I don't think Maximo Sedano has

 what it takes to steal that kind of money and come back

 here to face you. He knew he would be met at the

 airport. He was expecting it."

 Vargas said nothing, merely blinked.

 "Actually, his suggestion about the account

 numbers at the president's residence is a good

 one. If there was a leak, it was probably there.

 Fidel probably left the book lying aroundhe had

 no organizational sense."

 "And?"

 "I know of no one in Cuba with the computer expertise

 to get into the Swiss banks electronically and steal

 that money, but there are plenty of people in America who

 could. A lot of them work for the American government."

 "People were stealing money from banks long before computers were

 inventedea"...Vargas objected. "Anybody could have

 bribed a bank officer and stolen that money. The

 Yanquis are the most likely suspects,

 however."

 Vargas well knew that everything that went wrong south

 of Key West was not the fault of the United States

 government, but he was too old a dog to think that the people

 who ran the CIA were incompetent dullards too

 busy to give Cuba a thought.

  "The Americans say that shit happens."

  "They often make it happenea"...Vargas agreed,

 and stood up. "Let us talk to Maximo. Perhaps

 we can save a soul from hell."

  Going down the stairs Vargas said to Santana,

 "Maximo has been plotting to get himself

 elected president when Castro passes. Today would

 be a good time to let him know that such a course is

 futile."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Some pain, I think. Nothing permanent, nothing

 lifethreatening. We will need his expertise in finance

 later on."

  "Yes, sir."

  A petty officer came to find Jake

 Grafton. The sailor led the admiral to the Air

 Intelligence spaces, where he found Toad and the

 AI'S gathered around a television monitor.

  "A P-3 took this sequence a few hours

 agoea"...Toad told the admiral, "in the

 Bahamas. It's an anchored North Korean

 freighter. The P-3 is going to fly directly

 overhead here in a minute and get a shot looking

 straight down. We'll freeze the video there."

  The perspective changed as the plane came across

 the top of the ship. The clear blue water seemed

 to disappear, leaving the ship suspended above the yellow

 sandy bottom. Just before the P-3 crossed above the

 ship, Toad froze the picture.

  He stepped forward, pointing to dark shapes resting

 on the sand under the freighter. "I think

 we've found the rest of the stolen warheadsea"...he said.

 'The people on the

 Coldn

 dumped them here in the ocean for the North Koreans

 to pick up later."

  Jake stepped forward, studied the picture on the

 televi-

 sion screen. "Can this picture be computer

 enhanced?""...They are working on that hi Norfolk right

 now.""...How certain are they about the identification of the

 ship?"

 "Very sure. Undoubtedly North Korean."

 When the National Security Council met to be

 briefed about developments in Cuba, the

 president's mood was even uglier than it had been

 a few days before. He listened with a frozen frown as

 the briefer described the biological warfare

 research laboratory in the science building, at the

 University of Havana. He covered his face with a

 hand as the briefer explained that some of the warheads from

 Nuestra Senora de Colon

 appeared to be resting on a sandy ocean floor in the

 Bahamas, with a North Korean freighter anchored

 nearby.

 "The good newsea"...the briefer said brightly,

 "is that the freighter seems to be in Baharaan

 territorial waters."

 "Do you have a plan"..."...the president asked General

 Totten.

 "Yes, sir. At our request, the Bahamans have

 formally requested that a United States ship board

 and search the North Korean freighter, which has

 violated their territorial waters. The nearest

 U.s. ship will be there in three hours."

 "And if the North Koreans raise the anchor and

 sail away?"

 "We'll stop the ship anyway, remove any

 United States government property mat we

 find."

 "Another international incidentff"...the president

 grumped. "The North Koreans will shout bloody

 murder, then the Cubans will join the chorus."

 The national security adviser jumped right in.

 "Sir, the Cubans can't prove we had CBW

 warheads in Gitmo."

 "Can't prove? If Fidel Castro doesn't have

 a stolen artillery shell on his desk right now

 I'll kiss your ass at high noon on the

 Capitol steps while CNN"

 "Sir, we think"

 "Let me finish!

 Don't interrupt! I'm the guy the congressmen are

 going to fry when they hear about this fiasco. Let me

 finish."

 Silence.

 The president swallowed once, adjusted his tie.

 "And nowea"...he said, trying to keep the acid out of his

 voice, "we learn the Cubans have a biological

 weapons lab in a building in the heart of

 Havana, at the university there. Is that

 correct?"'

 "Yes,, sir."

 "What I would like to know is this: Have the Cubans got

 any way of using biological weapons on the

 United States right now? Today? Have they got a

 delivery system?"

 "Sir, we don't know."

 "Well, by God, in my nonmilitary opinion we

 ought to find out just as fast as we can. Does anybody

 in this room agree with that proposition?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "Another thing I want to know: Somebody explain

 again how the goddamned Chemical Weapons Treaty

 will make countries like Cuba decide not

 to build biological and chemical weapons."

 The silence that followed that question was broken by the

 chairman of the joint chiefs, General Tater

 Totten:

 "The Chemical Weapons Convention Agreement

 won't dissuade anyone who wants these weapons from

 building them. All it will do is force us to rid ourselves

 of the weapons that deter others from using these things.

 Chemical and biological weapons are only

 employed when a user believes his enemy cannot or will

 not retaliate in kind. Your staff knew that and

 wanted the treaty anyway so that you could brag about it

 on the stump and win votes from soccer moms who

 don't know shit from peanut butter."

 The president eyed General Totten sourly, then

 surveyed the rest of them. "At least somebody around

 here has the guts to tell it like it isea"...he muttered.

 The chairman continued: "Doing the right thing isn't the

 same as getting the right result. We could use more

 of the latter and less of the former, if you ask me."

 "Don't push it, Generalea"...the president snarled.

 The gray-haired general motored on as if the

 president hadn't said a word. "To get back to your

 question, of course the Cubans have a delivery system,

 or several. Biological weapons are the

 easiest of all weapons to employ. The delivery

 system could be as simple as planes rigged to spray

 microorganisms into the atmosphere: after all,

 Cuba is just ninety miles south of Key West;

 jets could be over Florida in minutes. Or a

 few teams of Cuban saboteurs could induce the

 toxins into the water supply systems of major

 citiestens of millions of people could be infected before

 anyone figured out there was even a problem."

 Here was the classic dilemma: The U.s. was

 prepared to fight a nuclear war to the finish and lick

 anyone on the planet in a conventional war.

 Hundreds of billions of dollars had been spent

 on networks and communications, on precision weapons

 and missile Systems, on an army, navy and air

 force that were die best equipped, trained, and led armed

 forces on earth. So if there were an armed conflict,

 no sane enemy would confront the United States

 on a conventional or nuclear battlefield:

 guerrilla warfare and terror weapons were the

 alternatives.

 "What die Cubans probably don't

 haveea"...General Totten continued, "is the engineering and

 industrial capacity to turn tankfuls of toxins

 into true weapons, weapons that are safe

 to handle, can be stored indefinitely, and aimed

 precisely. That's why they want to get tiieir

 hands on that shipload of biological warheads."

 "So how do we prevent the use of CBW

 weapons"..."...the president asked.

 "You have to deter the bad guysea"...Tater Totten

 explained. "You have to be willing to do it to, them

 worse man they can do it to you. And they have to know that you

 will."

 "You're saying that if the Cubans murder ten

 million Americans; we have to kill every human in

 Cuba?"

 "That's right. Mutually assured destruction."

 "M-A-D." .

 "Insane. But there is no other way. If these people

 think you lack the resolve to retaliate in kind, you

 just lost the war."

 "If anyone kills Americans we will

 retaliateea"...the president said. "That's been

 U.s. policy since George Washington took

 the oath of office."

 The general concentrated on straightening a paper

 clip, then bending it into a new shape.

 Finally, when the president had had his say, when the

 national security adviser had summed up

 the situation, the chairman spoke again: 'The agent in

 Havana who found the lab had a request. It was in

 the last paragraph of bis message this morning.

 Mr. Adviser, do you wish to discuss itr

 The adviser obviously didn't wish to discuss it;

 he could have raised the point at any time during the

 meeting and hadn't. A flash of irritation crossed

 his face, then he said, "I've gone over that

 request with the staff, and with State, ah, and both staff

 and State feel it is completely out of bounds."

 "What request"..."...the president asked curtly.

 "Sir, staff and State feel the request is

 absolutely out of the question; I struck it from the

 agenda."

 "What request"..."...the president repeated with some

 heat.

 "The agent wants Operation Flashlight to happen

 at onethirty A.m. tomorrowea"...Tater Totten said.

 "And that is"..."...the president said, frowning.

 "He wants the power grid in central Havana

 knocked out."

 "Oh. Now I remember. You want to blow some

 highvoltage towers."

 "That's correct, sir. This operation was discussed and

 approved three weeks ago."

 "Oh, no. Three weeks ago I gave a

 tentative approval, tentative only.

 Sabotage of a power network of a foreign nation is a

 damn serious matter. Back when I was in school

 we called that an act of war."

 "It still isea"...the national security adviser said. He

 was something of a suck-up, General Totten thought.

 "I think this matter deserves more discussionea"...the

 president said.

 "Yes,

 sir."

 "What happens if the people setting these charges are

 arrested?"

 The director of the CIA reluctantly stepped

 in. "Sir, that is one of the inherent risks of

 clandestine operations. The men who set the charges know

 the risks. We know the risks. The fact is that the

 possible gains here make the risks worth running.

 That's the same cost-benefit analysis we make

 before we authorize any clandestine operation."

 "What if one of these people is arrested? Can the

 Cubans prove they work for the CIA?"

 "No, sir. They will appear to be Cuban

 exiles, in Cuba creating mischief on their own

 hook."

 "This operation gives me a bad feeling in the pit of

 my stomachea"...the president said. "There are too many

 things going wrong all at once."

 General Totten could hold his tongue no longer.

 "There is no time to be lostea"...he said. "Four

 vials of microorganisms taken from a

 biological warfare laboratory located just

 ninety miles south of Key West in the capital

 of a communist country hostile to the United States

 are this very minute being examined in laboratories in

 the Washington area. Cuba could become another

 Iraq, armed to the teeth with chemical and

 biological weapons. This nation cannot afford to let that

 happen. Cuba is only

 ninety

 miles away. The risk is simply too great."

 The president glared around the room. Looking for

 someone to blame, General Totten thought.

 "Mr. President, Flashlight will take hours

 to pull off,"

 the CIA director said. "I've already given the

 order for it to proceed."

 "You've already given the order"..."...The president

 repeated the words incredulously.

 "There was no time to be lostea"...the director

 shot back. "These things take hours to set in

 motion. The execution time is one-thirty A.m.,

 less than six hours away."

 The chairman of the joint chiefs leaned forward in his

 chair, rested both elbows on the mahogany table.

 "Mr. President, we have no choice in this

 matter. None at all. If this administration

 fails to move aggressively to learn exactly

 what the Cuban threat is and take steps to meet

 it, you will almost certainly be impeached and removed from

 office by Congress for dereliction of duty."

 The president looked as if he were going

 to explode. This was a side of him the voters never

 saw. A control freak, like most politicians,

 he hated just being along for the ride. Watching the

 president seethe, Tater Totten knew his days

 on active duty were numbered. The CIA

 director had better start thinking about retirement,

 too.

 "Who is our agent in Cuba"..."...the president

 demanded.

 The director looked startled. Names of agents were

 closely held, never discussed in meetings like this.

 Yet he couldn't refuse to answer a direct question

 from the president of the United States.

 "Sir, if you need that information, I could write it

 on a sheet of paper."...The director grabbed a

 notepad and did so. He tore off the sheet,

 folded it once, and passed it down the table. The

 president put the folded paper in front of him but

 didn't open it.

 "I want to know who authorized this man"...the

 president tapped on the folded paper with a finger"...ffg

 to Cuba to see what cesspools he could uncover."

 "Sir, this mission was authorized by this council two

 months ago."

 "Then why in hell didn't someone mention it when we

 were discussing getting our warheads home from

 Guanta"- namo Bay? Why wasn't that cargo

 ship escorted from pier

 to pier? Why in hell didn't we get those warheads

 out of there two months ago, two years ago?

 Why in hell can't you people get a goddamn grip?"

 Silence followed that outburst. It was broken when the

 chairman said, "Instead of fretting over the timing,

 let's pat ourselves on the back for being smart enough to have

 an agent in Havana. It's the Cubans'

 weapons lab, not ours."

 When Tater Totten walked out of the room, he still

 had his letter of resignation from the joint chiefs

 in his pocket. He had prepared it when the national

 security adviser struck Operation Lightbulb from

 the agenda. Maybe he should have laid the letter on the

 president and retired to the golf course before these

 fools drove this truck off the cliff. He had

 no doubt the mess in Cuba was about to blow up in their

 faces, and soon.

 The American warship nearest the unnamed cay where the

 North Korean freighter was anchored was a

 destroyer out of Charleston, South Carolina,

 manned by naval reservists on their annual

 two-week tour of active duty. The destroyer

 had been on its way to Nassau for a weekend port

 call when the flash message rolled off the printer.

 The destroyer's flank speed was 34 knots, and

 she was making every knot of it now as she thundered down the

 Exuma Channel with a bone hi her teeth.

 From "five thousand feet Jake Grafton could

 see the destroyer plainly eveji though it was twenty

 miles away. And he could see the wake lengthening

 behind the North Korean freighter,

 Wonsan.

 "Damn scow is getting under wayea"...Rita said

 disgustedly. She was flying the V-22. "It'll be

 in international waters long before the destroyer

 gets there."

 "Wonder how many warheads they pulled out of the

 water?"

 "We're going to find out pretty soonea"...Jake

 muttered. "If this guy stops and lets us board

 him, he won't have a

 warhead aboard. If he refuses to heave to,

 he's got a bunch."

 "What are you going to do, Admiral, if he

 refuses to stop?"

 Jake Grafton didn't have an answer to that

 contingency, nor did he want to make the decision.

 If that eventuality came to pass he would ask for

 guidance from Washington, pass the buck along to people

 who would probably refer it to the politicians.

 'The

 Wonsan

 is turning northeastea"...Rita observed. "She'll

 probably go between Cat Island and San

 Salvador."

 "Let's go downea"...Jake Grafton said, "hover

 in front of this guy, see if he'll stop."...He was

 sitting on the flight engineer's seat just aft of the

 pilots.

 Five minutes later the Osprey was in

 helicopter flight with the rotors tilted up,

 descending gently hi front of the

 Wonsan,

 which was up to five or six knots now. Jake

 Grafton could see four people on the bridge, standing

 close together and gesturing at the Osprey. The

 copilot was watching the clearance, telling Rita how

 much maneuvering room she had.

 "Closerea"...Jake said.

 Rita Moravia kept the Osprey moving in.

 Luckily the wind was from the west, so she could keep the

 twin-rotor machine on the starboard side of the

 freighter, yet pointed right at the bridge. This

 kept the wind on her starboard quarter.

 She stopped when the distance between her cockpit and the

 bridge glass was about fifty yards. The right

 rotor was still well above the top of the freighter's

 crane, which was mounted amidships.

 "Closerea"...Jake said again, "but watch your

 clearance."

 The copilot glanced nervously at Jake.

 "Give me clearanceea"...Rita snapped at him, which

 brought him back to the job at hand.

 She maneuvered the Osprey until it was

 completely on

 the starboard side of the

 Wonsan,

 then she dropped it until she could see the length of the

 bridge.

 The captainhe might have been the captain, wearing a

 dirty, white bridge capstepped through the door of the

 bridge onto the wing and stood looking into the

 cockpit, fifteen feet away. He had his hands

 pressed against his ears, trying to deaden the mighty roar

 of the two big engines. The downwash from the rotors

 raised a storm of sea spray, which was soaking him,

 and now it carried away his hat.

 "Closerea"...Jake said one more time.

 "The air is sorta bumpy coming around this

 superstructure."

 "Yeahea"...the admiral said.

 Ten feet separated the nose of the V-22 from the

 rail of the bridge wing. Rita eased the Osprey

 forward a foot at a time, until the refueling

 probe and three barrels of the turreted

 fifty-caliber machine gun dist protruded from the

 nose were no more than eighteen inches from the rail.

 "Aim the gun at the captainea"...Jake said.

 The copilot flipped a switch, then looked at the

 captain's head, and the machine gun

 faithfully tracked, following the aiming commands sent

 to it from the gunsight mounted on the copilot's

 helrriet.

 The captain's face was nowiess than ten feet from

 Jake Grafton's. He was balding, a bit

 overweight, in his late fifties. The rotor wash

 lashed at him and tore at his sodden clothes, making

 it difficult for him to keep his footing. Groping for a

 rail to steady himself against the fierce wind, he looked

 at the three-barreled machine gun, which tracked him

 like a living thing, then at Jake Grafton on the

 seat behind the Osprey pilots.

 The captain turned and shouted something over his left

 shoulder; he held on with both hands as he went through

 the door onto the enclosed bridge.

 "Watch itea"...Jake muttered into his lip mike.

 "This guy may be fool enough to turn into you."

 Rita was the first to realize what was happening. She

 felt the need to turn left to hold position. "The

 ship is slowbigea"...she said. "I think he's stopped

 his engines."

 In a few seconds it became obvious that she was

 correct. Rita backed away until the distance

 between the cockpit and ship was about fifty

 feet.

 "I think he lost his nerve, Admiral."

 "Look at the stuff on his deckea"...the copilot

 said, pointing. "Looks like he pulled up a bunch

 of warheads."

 The freighter was drifting when the destroyer arrived a

 half hour later and coasted to a stop several

 hundred yards away. In minutes the destroyer had

 a boat hi the water.

 When armed Americans were standing on the

 Wonsan's

 deck, Jake tapped Rita on the shoulder.

 "Let's go home."

 "I listened to the tape from Alejo Vargas's

 office this afternoonea"...Carmellini said to Chance. They were

 walking the Prado looking for a place to eat dinner.

 To have a decent selection and palatable food, the

 restaurant would have to be a hard-currency place.

 Although the best restaurants were in ramshackle

 houses hi Old Havana, tonight Chance wanted

 music, laughter, people.

 "Someone told Vargas all about the break-in at the

 university lab, the contamination, the dead lab worker.

 They spent most of the day running the fans at the

 lab, trying to lower the count of the stuff in the

 air before they went in."

 "What did they say about the dead man, why he

 died?"

 "That had them stumped. He was vaccinated. They

 called hi a Professor Svenson."

 "Olaf Svenson?"

 "No one used a first name."

 "It must be him. I've heard of him. Damned

 potty old fool. He was at Cal Tech for

 years. Thought he was at Colorado now. A

 genius, almost won a Nobel Prize."...He

 snapped his fingers. "That photo we gave

 Bouchardthat must have been Svenson."

 "Well, he is their main man down at the lab,

 to hear the conversation at Vargas's office."

 "So why did the lab worker die? Wasn't he

 vaccinated?"

 "The stuff mutated, according to the professor.

 Mutated again, he said."

 "Well, what the hell is it? Did they say that?"

 "Some kind of polio."

 "Polio doesn't kill that quicklyea"...Chance

 objected.

 "This kind does. The lab worker wasn't the first,

 apparently. The professor wanted

 to dissect him like the others but Vargas ordered the body

 burned immediately."

 They paused on a corner, watched the people who filled

 the sidewalks under the crumbling buildings. Just down

 the walk to the left a Cuban was trying to sell

 trinkets to a pah* of Germans and having no

 luck. To the right a tall young white guy,

 American or Canadian probably, was locked

 in a passionate embrace with a local girl.

 "Sun, sex, and socialismea"...Carmellini

 muttered. "Makes you wonder why there aren't more

 Cubans."

 Chance closed his eyes, enjoyed the caress of the

 breeze on bis face and hair. He could hear

 snatches of music amid the honk of car horns and

 traffic sounds. Havana was very much alive this

 evening, as it was every evening.

 Finally he opened his eyes, looked again at the

 Cubans and tourists swirling about him. And

 Carmellini standing there, quite nonchalant, looking

 bored.

 "Do they have any ideas about who broke in?"

 "Americans. CIA scum. No evidence, but

 they're sure."

 Chance nodded.

 'There was talkea"...Carmellini continued, "of rounding

 up likely suspects, doing some thorough

 interrogations, just to see what might turn up. That was

 Colonel Santana's suggestion: apparently he

 is a rare piece of work. Vargas overruled him.

 Said they couldn't torture tourists every time the CIA

 did something they didn't like or soon they wouldn't have

 any tourists."

 "Anything else?"

 Carmellini shrugged, scratched his chin. "I listened

 to almost three hours" worth of that stuff, and you know,

 they didn't mention Fidel Castro even once."

 "Didn't say his name?"

 "Nope. And the technician said he hadn't heard

 them mention Castro all day."

 "Curious."

 "It's odd. I would have thought"

 After a bit Chance said, "The lab is just the tip

 of the iceberg. There must be machinery for drying out the

 cultures, for packing the microorganisms

 into warheads or mixing them into some sort of chemical

 stew to be sprayed from planes. There must be trucks

 that transport this stuff from place to place. And then

 there are the weapons: where the hell are they?"

 They went into one of the nightclubs and found

 an empty table. Six whores were sitting around the

 table beside them. The girls were drinking daiquiris and

 having a fine, comloud time. One of the girls looked

 the two men over while the band tuned up just a few

 feet away.

 "Washington wants more informationea"...Carmellini said,

 ignoring the whores.

 "They would."...Chance chewed on his lip for a bit, then

 picked up the wine list. "Tonight's the night we go

 into Vargas's safe. Are you comfortable with that?"

 Carmellini took his time answering. Chance was about

 to repeat the question when he said, "If the alarms are

 off."

 'They'll be off."

 "Sure."

 'Trust, me."

 When the waiter came they ordered dinner.

 "So tell me again alxwt the Ministry of

 Interiorea"...Carmellini said. "Everything you can

 recall. Everything."

 Chance leaned back, closed his eyes, tried

 to visualize how the building looked when he had

 stepped from the taxi

 out front on his way to his meeting with Alejo

 Vargas.

 "There is a guard kiosk out front on the

 sidewalk. You then walk through the front entrance to the

 guard station inside. They check your credentials

 again, call whoever you say you want to see. This

 person comes to get you, leads you through the halls to the

 office you are to visit."

 "Cameras?"

 "Security cameras mounted high in corners,

 monitored by the main guard station. There are two

 separate systems, at least, with pictures playing

 on separate monitors."

 "Infrared sensors?"

 "I think so...."...The fact is he should have paid more

 attention. Looked more carefully, consciously noted

 what he was seeing. "Yes, I remember seeing

 one."

 "Motion detectors?"

 "No."

 "Laser alarms?"

 "Yes, mounted at ankle height."...Presumably

 these were only on when the building was not occupied.

 "Alarms on the windows?"

 "Yes."

 "Vibrators on the glass?"

 "No."...If there had been vibrators, the

 computer would have had a much more difficult job sorting

 out the voices from the electronic noise of the

 vibrators when it tried to read the light refracted

 by the crystals.

 "Were there internal security doors, doors that

 might be closed when the building is not occupied?"

 "Yes. Every hall had them, but I doubt they were ever

 used."

 "And internal security stations?"

 "I saw none."

 Carmellini thought about it. Closed security doors

 made a burglar's access more difficult, but they

 provided a peaceful, quiet place for a burglar

 to work once he had gained entry.

 "Do they have backup power when the power goes

 off"..."...Carmellini mused.

 "They mustea"...Chance replied thoughtfully. "A backup

 generator of some type. I'm going to walk in

 assuming that they do, but I'll be improvising as I

 go."

 "We'll sure as hell find out soon enough,

 won't we"..."...Carmellini said, and grinned. That was the

 first grin he had managed all afternoon. The death of the

 lab worker had hit him hard, but the cool execution

 of the guard at the front door by William

 Henry Chance had hit him like a punch to the solar

 plexus. Chance just gunned the man down and kept on

 trucking, as if killing another human being were something

 he did every morning before lunch.

 All evening Carmellini had studied the older man,

 watched him for a sign that the murder of the guard was

 anything more than absolutely routine. And he had

 seen nothing. Nothing at all. Chance looked as if

 he might be having dinner in a restaurant in the

 Bronx with a Yankees game from a kitchen radio

 as background noise.

 Carmellini stared at the food on the plate that the

 waiter put in front of him. He didn't want

 a mournful. But what he wouldn't give for a stiff

 drink! He sipped at a glass of water, felt

 his stomach knot up.

 "Order a drinkea"...Chance said as he used his knife

 and fork. "One. Something on the rocks. You need it

 We have a long night ahead."

 Carmellini looked around for the waiter, and found himself

 staring at one of the whores at the next table, who

 gave him a big grin. He grinned back. A

 man just has to keep things in perspective.

 The sun had been down for several hours when

 Enrique Poveda and Arquimidez

 Cabrera drove up to the fourth EHV tower they

 hoped to blow. After a quick look around, they unlocked

 the padlock on the gate and put bn their tool

 belts. Each of the men picked a tower leg and started

 up. About ten feet above the ground they found the shaped

 charges of C-4 plastique still firmly taped to the

 steel legs. Working in the darkness by feel, each man

 took a chemical timer from his belt, a device about

 the size and shape of a fountain pen, and inserted it into the

 plastique. The timer was already set to explode as

 near to 1:30 A.m. as possible.

 After setting the timers, they climbed down to the ground,

 then ascended the other two legs. In minutes they were

 back on the ground.

 They locked the padlock, closed up the back of the

 van, and drove away.

 "One moreea"...Poveda said. He wished he had a map

 or diagram, but all that had been left behind in

 Florida. There he and Cabrera and the U.s.

 Army power grid expert had labored for days over

 satellite reconnaissance photos,

 photographs taken from the ground by not-so-innocent

 tourists, and computer-generated diagrams. They

 selected the target towers and committed their locations

 to memory. Not a single sheet of paper

 left the room with them.

 So now Cabrera pointed down one street and

 Poveda motioned toward another. The men chuckled.

 "I am very sureea"...Poveda said. "Two blocks

 down, right turn, then on for a half mile."

 "Okay."

 "I am glad it was tonightea"...Cabrera said. "The

 charges had been in place too long, the new

 padlocks were there too long, I was getting

 nervousyou know what I mean, my friend?"

 Poveda grunted. He knew. His stomach felt as

 if it were tied in a knot. He hadn't felt this

 uptight about an operation since his first one, fifteen

 years ago, when he was very young. He had been

 to Cuba many times since, eight as he recalled, and

 none of them were as tense as that first time, until now.

 The Cubans had almost caught him and his partner that

 time. The partner was eventually caught six years

 later and died under interrogation, or so they heard

 months after that. Poveda had promised himself then and

 there that he would never be taken alive, that he would not

 die in a Cuban prison.

 Communists! He made a spitting motion out the open

 window. The communists took everything from the people hi

 Cuba who had worked and saved and built for the

 future, and gave it to the people who had not. Now look

 at the place! Everyone poor, everyone on the edge

 of starvation, the cities and towns and factories

 rotting from lack of investment. The communists ran off

 the people who could make Cuba grow, the people the nation needed

 to feed everyone else. Ah, these bastards deserved

 their misery, and by God they had had some. Universal

 destitution was Castro's legacy, his gift

 to generations yet unborn.

 Poveda was a pessimist. He knew that soon

 Castro would be dead and things would change in Cuba.

 "They'll forget Fidel's faults, remember just

 the goodea"...he told Cabrera, for the hundredth time.

 "You wait and see. In a hundred years the church

 will make him a saint."

 "Saint Fidel."...Cabrera laughed.

 "I shit you not. That is the way of the world. The people he

 pissed on the most will call him blessed."

 "Saint or devil, we'll fuck the son of a

 bitch a little

 tonightea"...Cabrera said as the van pulled up to the last

 tower.

 Poveda killed the van's engine and lights and the two

 men got out. Silence.

 "Awful quiet, don't you think"..."...Poveda

 asked.

 Cabrera stood by the van's rear doors, listening,

 looking around. Poveda dug in his pocket for the key

 to the padlock, inserted it.

 It wouldn't fit. He tried another.

 "What's wrong?"

 "Key doesn't seem to want to go in this lock."

 "Let's get the fuck outta here, manea"...Cabrera

 said, and started for the van's passenger door.

 A spotlight hit them.

 "Put up your handsea"...boomed a voice on a

 loudspeaker.

 Poveda dropped to his knees, pulled a 9-mm

 pistol from his pocket. He didn't hesitatehe

 aimed at the spotlight and started shooting.

 Something hit him in the back. He was down beside the

 rear tire trying to rise when he realized he had

 been shot. People shooting from two directions, muzzle

 flashes, thuds of bullets smacking into the van like

 hailstones. A groan from Cabrera.

 "I'm hit, Enrique."

 "Bad?"

 "I think... I think so."...He grunted as another

 bullet audibly smacked into his body.

 The bullet that hit Poveda had come out his

 stomach. He could feel the wetness, the spreading

 warmth as blood poured from the exit wound. Not a lot

 of pain yet, but a huge gaping hole in his belly.

 He lifted the pistol, pointed it at Arquimidez

 Cabrera, his best friend. There, he could see the back

 of his head. He fired once; Cabrera's head

 slammed forward into the dirt. Then he put the barrel

 flush against the side of his own head and pulled the

 trigger.

 Sitting in the back of a van just down the street from the

 Ministry of Interior, William Henry Chance

 watched the second hand of his watch sweep toward the

 twelve. It passed 1:30 A.m. and swept

 on.

 The lights stayed on. Carmellini was looking at his

 own watch.

 "What the hell is wrong now"..."...Carmellini asked.

 "I don't know."

 "Oh, Lord."

 They sat there in the van looking at the lights of the

 city.

 "It went badea"...Tommy Carmellini said. "Time for

 us to boogie."

 "We'll give them a few minutes."

 "Jesus, when it doesn't go down as

 planned, something is wrong. What are you waiting for,

 a phone call from Fidel? Let's bail out while

 our asses are still firmly attached."

 "If I had any brains I wouldn't be in this

 businessea"...Chance replied tartly.

 His watch read exactly ten seconds after 1:32

 A.m. when the lights of downtown Havana

 flickered. "All rightea"...Carmellini said, and whacked

 his leg with his hand.

 The lights flickered, dimmed, came back on,

 then went completely out. All the lights. Only

 automobile headlights broke the total darkness.

 'That's it. Let's goea"...Chance said to Tommy

 Carmellini. They opened the back of the van and

 climbed out while the driver of the van started the

 engine. Chance walked the few steps back to an old

 Russian Lada parked at the curb behind the van and

 got into the passenger seat. Carmellini started the car

 and turned on the headlights while the van pulled

 away from the curb.

 The two agents drove down the street toward the

 Ministry of Interior, a hulking immensity even

 darker than the night.

 The three guards at the main entrance of the Ministry

 were illuminated by the headlights when Tommy

 Carmellini

 drove up. He killed the engine and pocketed the

 key as William Henry Chance got out on the

 passenger side.

 Of course the guards had seen Chance's uniform from the

 car's interior light while the door was opennow they

 flashed the beam of a flashlight upon him. Then they

 saluted.

 Chance was dressed in the uniform of a Security

 Department colonel. He had been to the building

 several days ago in the daytime wearing civilian

 clothes: he thought it highly unlikely mat anyone

 who had seen nun then would recognize him now. It

 was a risk he was willing to take. Still, his stomach

 felt as if he had swallowed a rock as he

 returned the guards" salute, and spoke:

 "We were just a block away when the power failed all

 over this district."

 "Yes, Colonel. Just a minute or two ago."

 "And you are?"

 "Lieutenant G6mez, sir, the duty

 officer."

 "Have you taken steps to start the emergency generator,

 Goodmez?"

 "Ahh... I was about to do so, Colonel.

 It is in the basement. I was waiting to see if the

 power would come back on immediately. Often these Outages

 last but moments and"

 "The darkness seems widespread, Gomez. Let

 us start the generator."

 "Of course, Colonel."...The lieutenant began

 giving directions to his two enlisted men, who

 obviously knew nothing about the emergency generator.

 The lieutenant began by telling them which room the

 generator was in.

 Chance interrupted again. "Perhaps you would like to take them

 there, supervise the start-up, Lieutenant. My

 driver and I will guard the front entrance until you

 return."

 "Of course, Colonel."...With his flashlight beam

 leading the way, the lieutenant and the two enlisted men

 made for the stairs.

 Carmellini opened the trunk of the car, extracted a

 duffel

 bag, which he swung over one shoulder. Without a word

 to Chance he disappeared into the dark interior of the

 building.

 Carmellini took the main staircase to the top

 floor of the building, then strode quickly down the

 hall to Alejo Vargas's private

 office. The door was locked, of course.

 Working in total darkness, Carmellini ran his hands

 over the door. One lock, near the handle. From the

 bag he extracted a small light driven by a

 battery unit that hooked on his belt. He donned

 a headband, then stuck the light to the headband with a

 piece of Velcro.

 He checked his watch. It was 1:36 A.m.

 He examined the lock, felt in the bag for his

 picks.

 Hmmm. This one, perhaps. He inserted it into the lock.

 No.

 This one? Yes.

 The latex gloves didn't seem to affect his

 feel for the lock.

 Carmellini had always enjoyed pick work. The

 exquisite feel necessary, the patience required, the

 pressure of time usually, the treasure waiting to be

 discovered on the other side of the door... the CIA

 had been a damned lucky break. Without that break

 he would have certainly wound up in prison sooner or

 later when his luck ran out, because no one's luck

 lasts forever.

 He inserted a smaller pick, felt for the contacts

 ...

 And twisted, using the strength of his fingers.

 The bolt opened.

 He stowed the picks, picked up the duffel bag, and

 opened the door.

 Dark office, with the only light coming through the windows,

 the glow of headlights on the street below, somewhere the

 flicker of a fire.

 The safe sat in the corner away from the windows. It

 was old, and huge, at least six feet tall,

 three feet wide and three feet deep. Painted

 on the door of the safe was a pas-

 toral scene; above the landscape arranged in a

 semicircle were the words "United Fruit

 Company."

 After a quick glance at the safe, Carmellini turned

 his attention to the rest of the room. He searched quickly

 and methodically. First the drawers of the desk. One of

 them held a pistol, one a bottle of expensive

 scotch whiskey and several glasses, one pens and

 pencils and a blank pad of paper. Several lists

 of names, phone numbers, addresses ...

 The lower right drawer of the desk was locked. A

 small, cheap furniture lock. He opened it with a

 knife, began examining files. The files seemed

 to be on senior people hi the government,

 girlfriends, vices, lies told, bribes offered and

 accepted, that kind of thing.

 He flipped through the files quickly, stacked them on

 the desk, and moved oa.

 The crystals were on the windowsill. A rack of

 books was below the window. A cursory check

 revealed no files peeking out between the books.

 The displays of old coins didn't even rate a

 glance. Back before he worked for the government the coins

 would have made his juices flow, but not now.

 On to the credenza. Many files in there. Carmellini

 sampled them, looking for anything on biology,

 weapons, strange code names. When he saw something

 he didn't understand he opened the file and glanced at

 the papers inside. Peoplemost of these files were

 on people. Unfortunately Tommy didn't

 recognize the names. He added the files to the stack

 on the desk.

 Now he discame to the safe. They must have lifted it

 to this floor with a crane before the windows

 viere

 installed, he thought He checked every square inch of the

 exterior to see if the safe was wired. No

 wires.

 Tommy Carmellini tried the handle.

 No.

 Turned the circular combination dial ever so carefully

 to the right, maintaining pressure on the handle. If the

 safe

 had been closed hastily, all the tumblers might not

 have gone home. He took his time.

 No. The safe was locked.

 He checked his watch. Now 1:47.

 The lights would come on soon, powered by the emergency

 generator.

 He opened the duffel bag and began extracting

 items. The first item he removed was a

 telescoping rod which he extended and positioned over

 the safe's combination dial; he secured it there with

 clamps placed on each side of the safe. Working

 quickly, witiMio lost motion, he clamped a

 small electric motor to the rod, then adjusted the

 jaws protruding from the motor so that they grasped the

 dial of the safe.

 Other sensors were placed on the top, bottom,

 left, and right sides of the safe door. These

 sensors were held in place by magnets.

 Wires led from the sensors and electric motor to a

 small computer, which he now took from the bag and

 turned on. There was one lead remaining, which

 he connected to a twelve-volt battery which was also in

 the bag.

 As he waited for the computer to boot up he checked

 all the leads one more tune. Everything okay.

 Tommy"...Carmellini pursed his lips, as if he were

 whistling.

 This contraption was of his own design, and with it he could

 open any of the older-style mechanical safes, if

 he were given enough time. An electrical current

 introduced into the door of the safe created a

 measurable magnetic field. The rotation of the

 tumblers inside the lock caused fluctuations in the

 field, fluctuations that were displayed on the computer

 screen. Finally, the computer measured the amount of

 electric current necessary to turn the dial Of the

 lock; an exquisitely sensitive measurement.

 Using both these factors, the computer could determine

 the combination that would open the safe.

 Sitting cross-legged in front of the safe with the

 com-

 puter on his lap, Carmellini tugged the latex

 gloves he was wearing tighter onto his hands, then

 manually zeroed the dial of the lock. Now he started

 the computer program.

 The dial rotated slowly, silently,

 driven by the electric motor clamped to the rod.

 After a complete turn the dial stopped at 32.

 The number appeared in the upper right-hand corner of the

 screen. After a short pause, the dial turned to the

 left, counterclockwise, as Carmellini grinned

 happily.

 In his mind's eye he could visualize the lock

 plates rotating, the tumblers moving....

 The line on the screen that tracked the magnetic

 field twitched unexpectedly. Carmellini

 frowned. He hadn't moved, the building was quiet

 Another squiggle, so insignificant he almost

 missed it And another.

 Someone was coming. Someone was walking softly down the

 hall; the sensors were picking up the shock waves of

 their footfalls as the waves spread out through the

 structure of the building.

 Careful to make no noise at all, Tommy

 Carmellini set the computer on the duffel bag,

 stood up and moved over behind the door. As he did

 he drew the Ruger from its holster under his shirt and

 thumbed off the safety, then turned off the light

 attached to his headband. Now he transferred the

 pistol to his left hand. greater-than caret ith his

 right he reached into a hip pocket and

 extracted a sap, a flexible length of rubber with the

 business end weighted with lead.

 The darkness appeared total as his eyes adjusted.

 Gradually a bit of glare from headlights faintly

 illuminated the room.

 Carmellini had good ears, and he couldn't hear the

 footfalls. He could hear the tiniest whine, however,

 that the electric motor made as it turned the dial

 of the lock, the distant honking of some vehicle

 blocks away, and faintly, "ver so family, the

 wail of a fire or police siren.

 Tommy Carmellini stopped breathing, stopped

 thinking,

 stood absolutely frozen as the knob on the door

 slowly turned, then the door began to open.

 William Henry Chance walked slowly back and

 forth hi front of less-than he glass doors that

 marked the main entrance to the Ministry. The duty

 officer and his two men were hi the basement, doing God

 knows what to the emergency generator. Chance wondered

 how long it had been since the generator had been

 fueled, oiled, checked carefully, and started.

 The second hand on his watch seemed frozen. He

 checked his watch, walked, watched cars and trucks

 pass by, adjusted his duty belt and

 pistol, reset the cap on his head, strolled some

 more, promised himself he wouldn't look at the luminous

 hands on his watch, finally peeked anyway. A

 minute. One lousy minute had passed.

 Someone was coming along the sidewalk... a uniformed

 guard carrying an AK-47 at high port. He

 must be stationed at one of the side or rear entrances.

 The man stopped, slightly startled, when he saw

 Chance's figure standing in the door. Now he peered

 closer. And saluted.

 "Sir, I am looking for the'duty officer."

 "He is hi the basement, starting the emergency

 generator. Is there someone else at your post?"

 "Uh, yessir. I was coming around to check if"

 "I think you should stay at your post. The emergency

 power for the building will come on in a-few minutes, then

 you can make your request of the duty officer."

 "Yeseamsir. But the last time we started that thing,

 all the alarms went off, every one of them. The duty

 officer always wanted the alarms off before he turned the

 power back on."

 "I am sure he will take care of that. He knows the

 system."

 "Yessir."

 "And when was the emergency generator last

 used, anyway?"

 "The big storm last year, sir. Eight or nine

 months ago, I think."

 "Go back to your post."

 "Yes, sir."...The man saluted, turned, and marched

 down the sidewalk. Chance could hear his footsteps for

 several seconds after he disappeared into the gloom.

 The guy accepted him as Cuban, as had

 Lieutenant G6mez and his men. If they only

 knew the hundreds of hours of language classes

 that Chance had endured to learn the accent, to get it

 exactly right!

 All in anticipation of a moment that might never come.

 Yet the orders did arrive, and here he was,

 walking around in the foyer of secret police

 headquarters in Havana spouting Cuban Spanish

 like Jose Marti.

 He went to the guard's station, used his flashlight

 to examine the equipment there. The video monitors

 were of course blank, everything off, but where was the

 tape? If the power came on while he was there he

 didn't want to give Alejo Vargas a souvenir

 videotape of the men who cracked his safe.

 Ah, here was the videotape machine, hi this

 cabinet. He pushed the eject button,

 futilely. Without power the machine would not eject the

 tape that it contained. He used the Rugerfour shots

 into the heads of the machine.

 The brass kicked out on the floor. He picked

 them up, pocketed them.

 More pacing. Each minute was an agony of waiting.

 When the power was restored to the building, he had

 expected the alarms to go off in Vargas's office,

 and to have to cover Carmellini as he made his exit.

 By whatever means necessary, he intended to be the only

 man at the main entrance when Carmellini emerged.

 Yet if alarms were a normal occurrence, perhaps

 violence would not be necessary.

 The silenced Ruger rode inside his shirt under his

 left armpit. The pistol was an assassin's

 weapon, shot a .22 Long Rifle hollow-point

 bullet that would do minimal dam-

 age unless

 fired

 into someone's brain at point-blank range. Wounds

 in the limbs or body would be painful but not immediately

 incapacitating. The Ruger's only virtue was the

 silencer that dramatically muffled the report,

 reduced it from an ear-splitting crack to a soft,

 wet pop that was inaudible beyond a few feet.

 He wondered how Carmellini was coming on getting the

 safe open. Come

 on, Tommy!

 Footsteps from within the building.

 Here came a flashlight.

 "Ah, Colonel, the lieutenant sent me to tell

 you that it will not be much longer, that the generator will s.tart

 very soon."

 "Yes."

 "He is having difficulty, the mechanical

 condition is not as it should be."

 "I understand. I have faith in your lieutenant."

 The man went back down the hallway in the

 direction from whence he came.

 More pacing.

 At least three more minutes had passed when the

 lieutenant came down the hallway. The occasional

 flicker of passing headlights revealed him to be a

 large, rotund man.

 "I am sorry, Colonel, but we cannot make the

 cursed thing run."

 "No harm done, if your guards stay alert. And

 I can always come back tomorrow for my errand, I

 suppose."

 "We will stay alert, sir. Our duty is

 our trust."

 "You and your men have done what you can, have you not?"

 "We could awaken Colonel Santana, I

 suppose. Perhaps he knows more about the generator than

 any of us."

 Chance tried to keep his voice under control.

 "Colonel Santana is in the building, then?"

 "Yes, sir. He came in about an hour ago.

 He went to his apartment on the top floor. I

 think he was investigating the

 incident of the two saboteurs that were killed near a

 highvoltage tower south of town."

 "A high-voltage tower? That sounds like attempted

 sabotage."

 "Oh, yes, sir."

 "I hadn't heard of that incident."

 "Enemies of the regime, sir. Apparently some of

 them were successful."

 "Santana is the very man I came to seeea"...Chance

 declared. "Still, I did not expect to find him

 asleep. I suggest you give the generator one last

 mighty heroic effort, and if you are unsuccessful,

 I shall awaken Colonel Santana."

 When the doorknob had turned as far as it would go, the

 door to Alejo Vargas's office slowly

 opened. Tommy Carmellini was behind the door, still as

 a statue hi the park, with a sap in his right hand and the

 silenced Ruger in his left.

 Now a flashlight beam shot out, swung quickly around

 the room, hit the safe and swung away for an

 instant, then returned to the door of the safe. The

 apparatus Carmellini had attached to the door was quite

 plain in the small beam, as was the tangle of wires

 that ran to the computer.

 Faster than he would have ever believed possible, the

 door smashed Tommy Carmellini in the face. The

 impact stunned him, threw him backward against the

 wall.

 The man sprang into the room, swung something that

 smacked Carmellini in the skull and made him see

 stars.

 He was falling, off-balance, the other man coming for him

 in a brutal, ferocious way, when he got the

 Ruger more or less pointed and began pulling the

 trigger as fast as he could. He could barely hear the

 pops.

 He fell to the floor and his assailant leaped on

 him, began smashing him in the face with his fist,

 repeatedly.

 Swinging his right hand with all his might,

 Carmellini hit the other man in the side of the head

 with the sap. And again.

 The man was slumping, falling to the left.

  Carmellini gathered his strength and smashed the man

 again, one more time, square in the head.

  The man rolled onto the floor, slumped on his

 back.

  Carmellini sat up, his breath coming

 in

 ragged gasps. Part of his face was numb, he was

 drooling from a mighty punch to the mouth.

  He forced himself to his knees. He pocketed the

 sap, reached for the flashlight, which was lying on the

 floor still lit. He played the light on the face

 of his assailant.

  San tana.

  Oooh, damn!

  He checked the pistol. He had fired at least

 five shots. A couple of the spent brass were lying

 near Santana, who had a bloody place on his

 chest, one on his neck. Hit twice, at least.

  Maybe one of the little .22 bullets would kill

 him.

  Maybe not.

  Tommy Carmellini found to his

 surprise that he didn't care one way or the

 other.

  He put the pistol back in its holster, wiped

 his face with his shirt, and went back to the computer.

  The combination was right there on the screen, all three

 numbers. The dial wasn't moving.

  He tried tiie handle, put some weight on it.

 It moved.

  The safe was open!

  He wiped his face on his sleeve, willed himself

 track to his task. First he stowed the computer and

 sensors and telescoping rod hi his duffel bag.

 Then he opened the safe, examined its contents with

 Santana's flashlight, then turned on his headband

 light.

 Lots

 of papers, files, two shelves of them. The top

 shelf consisted of files on people, each file had a

 person's name. These were the files he had come to find.

 He raked these into his duffel bag.

 Ah, on the second shelf... files labeled with

 numbers.

 He looked inside one. Engineering drawings,

 possibly of a warhead...

 He dumped everything that looked interesting

 into his duffel bag, including the stack of files

 on Vargas's desk.

 Oh, here was a file about supplies from a Miami

 laboratory supply house ... one about

 susceptibility studies, lethality, vaccines

 ... he stuffed all these in the bag, began checking

 another handful.

 The hell with it! He would take everything..the files

 on the bottom shelf might prove as interesting as

 those on the top. The bag would be heavy, but he could

 lift it. He transferred the files to the bag as

 quickly as he could.

 When he had all the files, he hoisted the bag

 experimentally. Eighty, pounds, at least. Room

 for a few more things...

 What else did Vargas keep in his safe? A

 small laptop computer. Well, he certainly

 didn't need that anymore. Into the bag with it.

 He was pawing through one of the side drawers when he

 sensed movement behind him.

 As he turned Santana's fist grazed his jawhis

 turn had been just enough to save his life. The headband and

 light flew away, somewhere, the little beam flashing around

 crazily.

 He groped for his sap, swung it in a

 roundhouse right and connected with bone.

 Santana went sideways to the floor.

 No time for this! The man is too dangerous!

 He pulled out the Ruger, thumbed off the safety and

 was ready when Santana came off the floor again.

 The pistol coughed.

 Santana's momentum drove his body forward and he

 collapsed against Carmellini's feet.

 The American stepped around the body. He put the

 pistol away, stowed the headband light, zipped the

 duffel bag closed.

 After a quick last look around, Tommy Carmellini

 went

 to the door, made sure it would lock behind him. He

 came back for the duffel bag, hoisted it to his

 left shoulder.

 Out in the dark hall, he pulled the door shut,

 made sure it was locked, then walked quickly down the

 dark hallway for the stairs.

 Tommy Carmellini held the Ruger down by his

 leg as he descended the stair and walked across the

 lobby toward the shadowy figure standing hi the

 doorway.

 As he walked the lights came on. Instantly an

 alarm sounded, loud enough to wake the dead.

 He squinted against the light. That was Chance standing hi

 the doorway.

 "Into the car, quickly nowea"...Chance said. The alarms were

 wailing and every light hi the building was on, wiuThat not

 a soul in sight. If they could be gone before the

 lieutenant and his men got back up here, he

 wouldn't have to kill themthey couldn't have seen his face very

 well in the darkness.

 His watch read 2:04 A.m.

 Chance stood in the doorway with euphoria flooding

 over him while Carmellini stowed the bag hi the

 backseat of the car, got into the driver's seat, and

 started the engine. Three long strides, he jerked

 open the passenger's door and jumped inside, and

 Carmellini fed gas.

 The lights hi the rest of the city were still off, however, so

 when the car pulled away from the building the night

 swallowed it.

 "What did you get?"

 "I got the safe opentook two drawers full of

 files, everything made of paper that was in there, some

 files from a desk. Got a laptop, too."

 "Well done."

 "Someone came hi while I was there. Santana,

 I think. Left him for dead."

 "I didn't take the time to check, and to be honest,

 I really don't care one way or the other. I

 put six bullets into the son of a bitch and whaled

 on him a while with the sap. If he isn't dead he

 ought to be."

 Chance flipped on the interior light of the car, just

 long enough to check Carmellini's face. "Looks like

 he got a piece or two of you."

 "Oh, yeah. He was damned quick."

 "Did he get a look at your face?"

 "I don't think so. Pretty dark. And he's

 probably dead. Don't sweat it."

 Chance grunted and stared out the window at the dark,

 decaying city.

 The voyagers on the

 Angel del Mar

 saw a ship during the night. It came out of one

 dark comer of the universe and passed within a half mile

 of the derelict as the people aboard shouted and waved the

 single working flashlight.

 The ship was a freighter of some type, huge, with

 lights strung all over the topside and

 superstructure. It raced through their world and disappeared

 into the void as quickly as it came, leaving the people gasping

 on deck, exhausted, starved, devoid of

 hope.

 A child had died earlier in the evening, just at sunset,

 and some of the people aboard had wanted to eat it "She is

 beyond caring, and her body can give us life,"eaone man

 said, a sentiment several agreed with.

 The old fisherman went below to tell Ocho, who was

 taking his turn on the pump, which meant he had

 to pump out the water that had accumulated because the man

 before him could not keep abreast of it, as well as the

 water that came in on his watch. He was on the ragged

 edge of total exhaustion, but he listened to the old

 fisherman as he struggled with the pump handle.

 "Maybe..."...Ocho began, but the old man would not

 listen.

 "To eat her would be sacrilege, the moral death of

 every

 onp who tastes her flesh or watches others eat

 it. All flesh must die, but to face God with that on

 our souls would be unforgivable. Come with me!

 Come!"

 He half dragged Ocho up the ladder. Together they

 swung hard fists left and right, reached the corpse,

 and tossed it into the sea.

 In the fading light the old fisherman stood with his

 back to the wheelhouse and shouted at the

 others, some too weak to move. He damned them,

 dared them, kicked at those who came too close,

 punched one man so hard he nearly went overboard.

 The child's body floated, supported by the great vast

 moving ocean, just out of reach, moving with the rise and

 fall of the swells. Some of the people looked at it,

 others refused to. When the last of the light faded the

 body disappeared into the total darkness.

 Ocho went back down the ladder to the hold, which

 reeked of vomit and filth. He worked the pump

 handle like an automaton.

 Finally the fisherman relieved him, helped him up

 the ladder.

 He was lying by a scupper when the ship went by. He

 roused himself, stood with a hand on the rail, tried

 to shout and found he had no voice left.

 Then someone tried to push him overboard.

 There was no mistake. The hard shove in the back,

 the continuing pressure.

 Only his raw strength saved him. Ocho turned and

 swung blindly, felt his fist connect with cartilage

 and bone, swung several more times before the man went

 down."

 Ocho collapsed from the exertion. He crawled

 forward, intent on beating the man as long as

 he had strength to swing his fists, but Dora was there,

 sobbing, and stopped him.

 "No, no, no, my Godff"...she howled. "You are

 killing him!"

 "He tried to shove me over."

 "Oh, damn you, Ocho. If it weren't for you, we

 would be safe in Cuba."

 "Me?"

 "You were Ms ticket out. You! This is your fault."

 "And you are blameless. With the baby in your body you

 risked your life."

 "I am not pregnant! I have never been

 pregnant! He made me tell you I was so you would

 come."...And she dissolved in sobbing.

 Ocho lay in the darkness trying to think, trying to see

 the boat and the people as God must see them, looking down

 from above. His

 Fortunately rain fell occasionally, enough to fill the

 bucket and let people drink. Maybe God was sending

 the showers.

 He was starving, though, and oh so tired.

 His whole life had dissolved into nothing and was soon

 to end, and he didn't care. He tried to tell

 Dora that it didn't matter but he couldn't and she was

 sobbing hysterically, and in truth he really

 didn't care.

 After another turn at the pump, Ocho came back

 on deck and looked for Diego and Dora, to say

 somethinghe didn't know what, but something that would make

 their burdens easier to carry.

 But Diego wasn't there. He wasn't in the hold

 and he wasn't in the wheelhouse and he wasn't on

 deck. Ocho scanned the sea, checking in all

 directions, looking for a head bobbing amid the heaving

 swells.

 Dora was curled

 in

 a ball near the bow. He shook her.

 "Where's Diego?"

 She. had a dazed look on her face, as if she

 didn't understand the words. He repeated the question several

 times.

 She looked around, trying to understand.

 "I do not see himea"...Ocho said, trying to explain.

 "Did he fall overboard?"

 She stared at him with eyes that refused to focus.

 Her face was vacant, blank. Finally her eyes

 focused.

 "He climbed the rail last night.

 Jumped in the ocean."

 Ocho looked again on both sides of the boat,

 staggered to the port side so he could look aft past

 the wheelhouse. Then he returned.

 She was lying down again, curled up, her chin against a

 knee.

 He left her there, lay down and tried to rest.

 "Who did this to you?".

 Alejo Vargas asked the question of Colonel

 Santana while he lay on a gurney in the

 hospital emergency room being propped for

 surgery. He had four bullets in him and a wicked

 wound on his forehead where a bullet had ricochetted

 off his skull. His jaw and one cheekbone were

 severely swollen, his nose smashed, he had lost

 two teeth, and he obviously had a concussion. The

 pupil in his right eye was dilated and refused

 to focus.

 "I don't knowea"...Santana managed. He tried

 to swallow, almost choked on his tongue. After gagging

 several times, he seemed to relax.

 "American?"

 "I do not know. Nothing was said, it was dark. He was

 waiting behind the door when I went in."

 "One of the bullets penetrated the wall of

 his chest, Ministerea"...the doctor said. "We must get

 it out and stop the hemorrhaging. He needs a

 transfusion and rest."

 Vargas left the emergency room. The car drove

 him back to the ministry and he took the elevator

 to his office.

 The workers had the worst of the damage cleaned up.

 Still, the door to the safe was standing open and the drawers

 within were empty.

 The priceless files on the generals and top

 government people that had taken twenty years to compile,

 gonelike a storm in the night. Every sin known to man

 was somewhere in one of those files: marital infidelity,

 theft, rape, incest, sodomy, even murder. Those

 files were the key to

 his power, to his ability to make things happen anywhere

 hi Cuba. And now they were gone.

 Hector Sedano was his fast suspect. Of course

 Hector himself was hi La Cabana, but someone could

 have robbed the safe on his behalf.

 And it could be one of the generals, or Admiral

 Delgado. Any one of those ambitious fools.

 Raul Castro? A possibility, but he discounted

 it. Then the fact that he thought Raul Castro an

 unlikely suspect made him

 suspicious. He would have Raul checked, followed

 day and night, everyone he spoke to would be

 scrutinized.

 Truly there was much to do. Much to do.

 The electrical outage made the burglary

 possible. Four towers down, two dead

 saboteurs.

 There was a trail out there, and some diligent

 investigating would eventually lead him to the man or men

 who did this crime.

 Not that it would do any good. Whoever had those files would

 undoubtedly destroy them immediately.

 All his plans, all that work... up hi smoke.

 Alejo Vargas didn't believe hi

 coincidences. Whoever robbed that safe made

 extensive preparations. This was no spur-of-the-moment

 thingthe robbery was carefully, meticulously planned.

 He looked again at the safe. Not a mark on it.

 Someone had dialed the combination. He had heard that such

 things were possible, but he had never seen it done.

 Nor heard of it being done hi Cuba. Yesterday

 he would have said there was not a man hi Cuba with that kind

 of talent

 And the files on the biological program were gone.

 The day after the break-in at the lab.

 The lab break-in wasn't Hector's stylehe

 would have no reason to burgle the place, nor would

 anyone else there was nothing there to steal.

 Except poliomyelitis viruses. Would

 Hector gain politi-

 cal advantage by publicizing the biological

 weapons program, proving its existence?

 The Americans...

 Alejo Vargas stood looking at his empty

 safe, thinking about Americans.

 The Americans were a possibility, he

 reluctantly concluded.

 He got a magnifying glass from the top drawer of

 his desk, examined the door of the safe as carefully

 as he could.

 There were marks, scratches, several together. He could

 see them. But how long had they been there? What were

 they made by?

 There was no one to tell him, and he decided finally that

 perhaps it didn't matter. The people who opened this safe

 and stole the keys to Cuba had brought down the power

 grid hi central Havana. That was where the trail

 began.

 He spent a few seconds hi contemplation of his

 revenge when he caught these men.

 "Minister, here is Lieutenant G6mez, who

 had the duty last night."

 "You saw these men, G6mez?"

 'Two men arrived just seconds after the lights went

 out, sir. I saw the colonel for a few seconds

 hi a flashlight beam. The driver, no."

 "What did this man look like?"

 "He was tall, not fat"

 "His accent?"

 "None that I noticed, sir."

 "Come, come, Lieutenant. Was he from Cuba, from

 Havana or Oriente, or did he speak

 Castilian Spanish?"

 "From Havana, I thought, sir. He sounded like you and

 me."

 "What did he say?"

 "That we should start the emergency generator."

 "So you did?"

 "Yes, sir. Without power the alarms were disabled, we

 could not talk to each other on the telephone, the

 security

 of-the building was compromised. My men and I went

 to the basement and worked on the generator. I came

 back upstairs once and reported to the colonel,

 told him we were having difficulties; he

 said he had faith. When we got the generator going

 and went back upstairs, the colonel and his driver

 and vehicle were gone."

 "You had never seen this colonel before?"

 "Not to my knowledge, sir."" "Would you recognize him

 if you saw him again?"

 "Oh, yes, sir."

 No, he wouldn't, Vargas decided. If this

 colonel thought there was a glimmer of a chance

 Lieutenant G6mez would recognize him then

 or later, he would have killed him. G6mez was

 alive because he posed no threat.

 Vargas dismissed G6mez and called in his

 department heads to give them orders.

 With no ceremony and no conversation, Mercedes

 Sedano was released from the presidential palace.

 A butler came to the door, suggested she pack.

 The electrical power was still off. It had been off

 when she awoke this morning, and she was given stale

 bread and water for breakfast.

 She put the clothes she wished to keep in two

 shopping bags that were on the floor of the closet,

 sandwiched the cassettes in between them, and took a last

 look around the apartment. The butler returned five

 minutes later and led her out. Without

 electricity the palace looked dark and grim.

 She wanted desperately to be gone, to bring an end

 to this phase of her life. She bit her lip to keep

 herself under control.

 The butler paused in an empty hallway, looked

 around to ensure that there were no maids about, then

 whispered, "They've arrested your brother-in-law

 Hector Sedano. He is in La Cabana."

 Then he took her to the door of the palace, said a

 barely audible good-bye, and closed the door behind

 her.

 She walked past the guards and continued down the

 street to the bus stop. The electrical power

 seemed off everywhere, yet the streets of Havana

 hustled and bustled as usual. Didn't they know

 Fidel was dead?

 She dared not ask.

 On the bus she saw a newspaper lying on a

 nearby seat and scanned the front page. The

 usual stuff, nothing about Fidel.

 So they had not announced his death.

 She transferred to another bus, left her clothes

 with a friend in a shop on the Malecon. The shop was

 closed because of the lack of electricity, but Mercedes

 tapped on the window until her friend came

 to open the door.

 Her friend was very agitated. She drew Mercedes into the

 tiny dark storeroom. "I have heard they arrested

 Hector. What does it mean?"

 "I do not knowea"...Mercedes told her, shaking her

 head.

 "Hector's friends are on fireea"...sd the

 shopkeeper, "and he has many, many friends. I heard

 there was a riot in Mariel after he was arrested. The

 newspapers have nothing on it, yet the story is on

 everyone's lips. People are coming in, asking me about it,

 because they know I know you."

 Mercedes assured the woman she knew nothing, that

 she was as mystified as everyone on the street.

 She rode buses through the city to La Cabana.

 The guard at the gate recognized her name and sent

 a man to fetch the duty officer, a Captain

 Franqui. He treated her with respect, took

 her to his office, a dark cubicle near the gate,

 and sent a note to the commandante. While the note was

 being delivered he apologized for the lack of

 electricity. "It has not been off this long in

 years."

 In five minutes she and Franqui were in the

 commandante's office. He was a

 heavy-set, balding officer who looked as if he were

 frightened of his own shadow.

 "I have my ordersea"...he said. "I cannot admit you.

 He is to see no one."

 "Fidel sent meea"...she said simply, without

 inflection. "Hector is my brother-in-law."

 The commandante looked as if wild horses were trying

 to tear him in half. Obviously he knew of the

 relationship between Mercedes and caret Fidel. The

 blood drained from his florid comface as he weighed

 his fear of Fidel against his fear of Vargas.

 Captain Franqui understood the commandante's

 dilemma. "Perhaps, if I may be so bold, sir,

 it might be best if you were indisposed, at lunch

 perhaps, and I acted on my own initiative in light

 of the lady's impeccable credentials."

 The commandante grasped at this straw. "I cannot be

 everywhere or make every decision, can I?"

 "No,

 sit.

 If you will excuse us"..."...Captain Franqui took

 Mercedes's elbow and steered her expertly from the

 office into the hallway.

 "I myself am an admirer of Hector

 Sedanoea"...Captain Franqui confided as they

 walked. "He is a great patriot and a man of

 God. Surely he will serve Cuba well in the

 years ahead."

 After several minutes of platitudes, she found

 herself standing hi front of Hector's cell

 in

 the isolation wing. None of the other cells contained people.

 Captain Franqui disappeared, leaving the two of

 them alone.

 "Are they listening"..."...she whispered.

 "Probably notea"...he said. "The electricity is

 off, and they would need it to listen."

 "How long*h you been here?"

 "Two days. For two days I've been sitting

 alone hi this hole. No one comes to see me."

 'They will admit no one. I told them Fidel had

 sent me, and the commandante was afraid to refuse."

 "Ah, yes, Fidel."

 "He is dead."

 "I am sorry, Mercedesea"...he said softly, so

 softly she almost missed his words.

 "It had to happen. He and I both knew it,

 accepted it."

 Hector sighed. "That explains my

 arrest, then."

 'Two days ago."

 "The cancer finally, eh?"

 "Poison! He poisoned himself rather than make a

 tape naming Vargas as his successor."

 Hector crossed himself.

 "It was not a sinea"...she said, desperate to explain.

 "He merely speeded things up a few days."

 Hector leaned forward, let his forehead touch the

 cool steel bars.

 "I heard there was a riot in Mariel after you were

 arrested."...Her voice was very soft, a whisper in

 church.

 "I did not know that."

 "A fr'told me."

 "Have you heard from Ocho?"

 "Nothing. Is he not at home?"

 "He went on a boat with some others. They were going

 to America."

 "I have heard nothing."

 Hector sagged, fought to stay erect. He looked

 so ... so different from Fidel, Mercedes thought.

 He was not tall, vigorous, oozing machismo. And

 yet Fidel thought Hector could lead Cuba!

 She got as close to the bars as she could, and

 whispered, "I need to talk to the Americans as

 soon as possible. Should I see the little man you

 gave the Swiss bank account numbers to? The

 stadium keeper?"

 "He might betray you. He talks to Vargas

 too. I tried to frighten him, and may have succeeded

 too well."

 "Who, then?"

 "Go to the American mission. Ask for the cultural

 aide, I think his name is Bouchard. He is

 CIA, I believe."

 "Fidel signed bank transfer orders for

 Maximo, who went flying off to Switzerland, just as

 we thought he would. I have not heard if he got the

 money."

 "He will not come back if he gets itea"...Hector

 said.

 "Maximo would steal itea"...she agreed. "But do you think

 the Americans will ever give the money back?"

 "I have heard their courts are fair. I would rather try

 to get the money back from them than from Maximo."

 She nodded at that.

 "Why do you want to talk to the Americans

 now"..."...Hector asked.

 She told him.

 The secret police had the bodies of the two

 saboteurs laid out in the basement of police

 headquarters when Vargas saw them. Two

 Latin-looking males who had spent many years in the

 United States, from the look of their dental work.

 Exiles, probably.

 Vargas examined their clothes, which were in a pile, and

 stirred through the contents of the van. He examined the

 chemical timers and C-4 shaped charges, the guns

 and electrical tape, and tossed everything back on

 the table.

 CIA.

 No doubt in bis mind.

 Four extra-high-voltage towers had collapsed,

 killing power to the two substations that fed central

 Havana and the government office buildings located

 there.

 A neat and tidy operation.

 And as soon as the power went off, a team of

 burglars entered the Interior Ministry and robbed the

 safe in his office, carrying away files that he had

 spent twenty years collecting.

 The Americans.

 And he had not an iota of proof, nor would he ever

 get any.

 The burglars also stole bis laptop computer, and the

 thought of its loss gave him pause. Certainly not

 as valuable as the files, the laptop had many things

 on it he wished the Americans did not have.

 He had used the computer to derive the

 trajectories for the missiles" guidance

 systems, which had to be reprogram-

 med when the warheads were changed, the new biological

 warheads being significantly lighter than the old

 nuclear ones. Still, if the Americans didn't know

 about the missiles, perhaps they wouldn't pay much

 attention to that file.

 What the burglary showed, Alejo Vargas

 concluded, was that time was short. The Americans could

 move fast and decisivelyto win the game he was

 going to have to move faster.

 I'm ready,

 he told himself.

 Now is the hour.

 "I am Bouchard, the cultural attache."

  Mercedes Sedano smiled, shook the offered hand.

  "Please sit down."...Bouchard looked

 embarrassed, as if he rarely entertained

 visitors in this small office, which was packed with

 Cuban magazines and newspapers. Four

 candles sat atop the piles. "The power is still

 out," he said by way of explanation. "And the emergency

 generator ran out of fuel an hour ago."

  "I don't know how to begin, Doctorea"...she said.

  "I am not a real doctorea"...he said

 apologetically. "I am a scholar."

  "My brother-in-law is Hector

 Sedanoea"...she explained. "He said I should come

 to you."

  "My work is strictly cultural, senora. I

 work for the American state department studying the

 culture of Cuba. I cannot imagine how I could be

 of service to you, or anybody else. I write

 studies of Cuban music, literature,

 drama...."

  "I know nothing about die branches of the American

 governmentea"...she said.

  Bouchard smiled. "I know very little myselfea"...he

 confided.

  "You still haven't asked why I am here."

  "I ask now, sefiora. What may I do for

 you?"

 "My brother-in-law, Hector Sedano, says

 you work for the CIA. He"

 Bouchard was horrified. His hands came

 up, palms out.

 "Senora, you have been severely misinformed. As I

 have just explained, I am a scholar who"

 "Yes, yes. I understand. But I have a problem that"

 He clapped his hands over his ears. "No, no,

 no. You have made a great mistakeea"...he said.

 She sat calmly, waiting for him to lower his hands.

 When he saw that she was not going to speak, he did so.

 "I must show you my workea"...Bouchard said, and dug into a

 drawer. He came up with a handful of paper, which he

 thrust at her. "I recently completed a major

 study of"

 She refused to touch the paper. "Fidel Castro

 is deadea"...she said.

 Bouchard froze. After a few seconds he

 remembered the paper in his hand and laid it on top

 of the nearest pile.

 "I was there when he died. We were filming a statement

 to the Cuban people, a political will, if you

 please."...She produced two videotapes from her

 large purse and laid them on the nearest pile.

 "He died before he finished his speechea"...she

 explained. "Which is inconvenient and, in a larger

 sense, tragic."

 "I

 assure

 you, Sefiora Sedano, that I am a poor

 scholar, mediocre hi every sense, employed here hi

 Cuba because I tired of the publish-or-perish

 imperative of the academic world. My work is of little

 import to the United States government or anyone

 else. still

 do not work for the CIA.

 There has been some mistake."

 Mercedes maintained a polite silence until he

 ran out of words, then she said, "Fidel and I

 watched an American movie a few months ago,

 about dinosaurs in a parkan extraordinary story and

 an extraordinary film. We marveled at the

 magic that could make dinosaurs so lifelike upon the

 screen. It was almost as if the moviemakers had some

 dinosaurs to film. Perhaps the magic had something to do

 with computers. However they did it, they made something

 mat had been dead a very long time come back

 to life."

 Bouchard didn't know what to say. Agency

 regulations did not permit him to tell anyone

 outside the agency who

 his employer was. He twisted his hands as

 he tried to decide how he should handle this woman who

 refused to listen to his denials.

 "Did you say something"..."...she asked.

 "I don't like moviesea"...Bouchard muttered. "There

 are no good actors these days."

 "Perhaps not livingea"...sd Mercedes Sedano. "But you

 must admit the magicians have given new life to some

 dead ones. You and your friends could perform a great

 service for Cuba if you would take these

 videotapes to the moviemakers and let them bring

 Fidel back to life. For just a little while."

 Bouchard picked up the cassettes,- held them in

 his hands as he examined them.

 "I dissuppose the cultural attach caret might

 be able to pass these things alongea"...Bouchard admitted.

 "What is it you wish Fidel had lived to say?"

 Mercedes nodded. She looked Bouchard straight in

 the eyes and told him.

 Maximo Sedano huddled in bis great padded leather

 chair at the Finance Ministry staring out at the

 Havana skyline. He took another sip of

 rum, eased the position of his injured hand. He was

 holding it pointed straight up. The doctor who

 set the broken bones in bis fingers assured him

 elevating the hand would help keep the

 swelling down.

 That pig Santana! He whipped out his pistol and

 smashed it down on the fingers of Maximo's left

 hand so quickly Maximo didn't even think of jerking

 it away. Three broken fingers.

 Then the son of a bitch laughed! And Vargas

 laughed.

 Vargas had whispered in his ear: "You aren't going

 to be the next president of Cuba, Maximo. You

 have no allies. Delgado and Alba will obey me

 to then- dying day, as you will. You have a wife and daughter

 and your health. Be content with that."

 He said nothing.

 "Your brother Hector is in prison charged with

 sedition. I suggest you meditate upon that fact."

 Maximo sipped some more ram.

 His fingers hurt like hell. The doctor gave him a

 local anesthetic and a half dozen pills when he

 set the fingers, but now the anesthetic was wearing off and the

 pills weren't doing much good.

 He probably shouldn't be drinking rum while taking

 these pills, but what the hell. A man has to die

 only once.

 Where was the $53 million?

 Somewhere on the other side of the black hole that was the

 Swiss banking system.

 Face facts, Maximo. You can kiss those bucks

 good-bye. Those dollars might as well be on the

 back side of the moon.

 He spent some time dwelling on what might have been

 he was only humanbut after a while those dreams

 faded. The reality was the pain in his hand, and the fact that

 he was stuck hi this Third World hellhole and would

 soon be out of a job. Whatever government followed

 Fidel would appoint a new finance minister.

 He had no chance of succeeding Castro, and he let

 go of that fantasy too. He didn't have the allies

 hi high places, he wasn't well enough known, and

 if he had been he would be in a cell beside Hector

 this very minute.

 Hector's plight didn't cause bun much

 concern. He and Hector had never been close, had

 never had much in common. Well, to be frank, they

 loathed each other.

 A pigeon landed on the ledge outside his window.

 He watched it idly. It searched the ledge for

 food, found none, then took eff.

 Maximo watched it. The pigeon circled the

 square hi front of the ministry and landed on

 a statue that stood near the front door. Maximo

 had never liked the statue, some Greek goddess with a

 sword. Still, it gave the building a certain tone,

 so he had never ordered it moved.

 Statues. At least he got the goddess instead of

 that

 larger-than-life bust of Fidel that the Ministry of

 Agriculture

 He stared at the goddess. She was made of

 bronze. Some kind of metal that had turned green

 as the rain and sun and salt from the sea worked on it.

 The bust of Fidel in front of the Ministry of

 Agriculture was of course manufactured and

 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 intelligence.

 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

 into the room, "but the copilot was holding a radio

 mike hi his hand. I think it's time we bid Cuba

 a fond farewell."

  "Let's goea"...Chance agreed.

  The boats were fast, at least thirty knots. In

 the swell of the open sea beyond the peninsula they bucked

 viciously. Salt spray came back over the men

 huddled behind the tiny windscreen every time the boat

 buried its bow.

  Chance settled back, wedged himself into place with the

 computer on his lap.

  They were well out to sea, heading due south, when a

 Cuban gunboat rounded the eastern promontory and

 gave chase. A puff of smoke came from the forward

 deck gun and was swept away by the wind.

  The splash was several hundred yards

 short.

  The lieutenant at the helm altered course

 to put the gunboat dead astern. The Cuban

 captain fired twice more; both rounds fell short.

 Then he apparently decided to save his ammunition.

  The boats ran on to the southwest.

 Tommy Carmellini caught Chance's eye and gave

 him a huge grin.

 Yeah, baby!

 The distance between the speedboats and the gunboat slowly

 widened over the next hour. After a while the

 gunboat was only visible as

 a.

 black spot on the horizon when the boat topped

 a swell. As the rim of the sun touched the sea, the

 Americans realized the crew of the gunboat had

 given up and turned back toward-the north.

 Then they heard the jets. Two swept-wing fighters

 dropping down astern, spreading out as they came racing

 hi, one after each boat.

 "MiGo-19'sea"...the lieutenant shouted. "Hang

 on tight."

 The shells hit the sea behind the boat and marched toward

 it as quick as thought. Lieutenant Fitzgerald spun

 the helm, the boat tilted crazily, and the

 impact splashes from the strafing run missed

 to starboard.

 The jet that strafed Chance's boat pulled out right

 over the boat, no more than fifty feet up. The

 thunder of the engines was deafening.

 The jet made a climbing turn to the left, a

 long, lazy loop that took it back for another

 strafing run. His wingman stayed hi trail behind him.

 "Turn west, into the sunea"...Chance shouted

 to Fitzgerald, who complied. The other boat did the

 same. The boats came out of their turns with the

 sun's orb dead ahead, a ball of fire touching the

 ocean.

 The jets behind overshot the run-in line, so they

 made a turn away from the boats, letting the distance

 lengthen, as they worked back to the dead astern position.

 Fitzgerald handed Chance his M-16. "As he

 pulls out overhead, give him the whole magazine

 full automatic."

 Chance nodded and lay down in the boat.

 As the jets thundered down, Fitzgerald turned the

 boat ninety degrees left, then straightened. The

 MiGo's left wing dropped as he swung the nose

 out to lead the crossing boat. He steepened his dive.

 As the muzzle flashes appeared on

 his wing root, Fitzgerald spun the helm like a

 man possessed to bring the boat back hard east,

 into the attacker.

 The shell splashes missed left this time: Chance

 let go with the M-16 pointing straight up, in the

 hope the MiGo would fly through the barrage.

 Whether any of his bullets hit the jet as it

 slashed overhead, he couldn't tell. The plane

 pulled out with its left wing down about thirty

 degrees, but its nose never came above the

 horizon. Perhaps the sun dead ahead on the

 horizon disoriented the pilot. The left roll

 continued as the plane descended toward the sea, then it

 hit with a surprisingly small splash. Just like that, it

 was gone.

 The other jet was climbing nicely. The pilot had

 found his target: the other speedboat was upside down

 in the sea.

 Fitzgerald turned toward the upset boat, kept

 his speed up.

 The wingman took his timehe must realize this would be the

 last strafing run because the light was failing, and perhaps

 he was running low on fuel.

 He came off the juice, kept the power back, so

 on this pass he was doing no more than 250

 knots, a pleasant maneuvering speed.

 Fitzgerald turned his boat so that he was heading

 disstraight for the jet. He had the throttle wide

 open. The jet steepened his dive.

 The pilot held his fire and fed in forward stick.

 Fitzgerald spun the helm as far as it would go and the

 boat laid over on its beam in a turn.

 The jet didn't shoot, but began pulling out.

 William Henry Chance let go with a whole

 magazine.

 Clbser and closer the plane dropped toward the

 sea, the nose still coming up, contrails swirling off the

 wingtips from the G-loads. The belly of the MiGo

 almost kissed the water, came within a hair's

 breadth, and then the jet was climbing into the sky

 trailing a wisp of smoke.

 "Maybe you hit himea"...Fitzgerald shouted.

 "He sure came close enough."

 Now the jet was turning toward the north, still climbing

 and trailing smoke. Soon it was out of sight amid

 the altocumulus clouds.

 The overturned boat had been hit by cannon

 fire, which punched at least six holes in the

 bottom. One man hi the water had a broken arm,

 the other two were dead. A cannon shell

 had hit one of the men hi the torso.

 Chance and Carmellini managed to get the injured man

 aboard.

 "The bodies tooea"...Fitzgerald demanded.

 "They're my men."

 "What about the Cuban pilot"..."...Carmellini asked

 Fitzgerald.

 "He's probably deadea"...the SEAL lieutenant

 said. "If he isn't, I hope he's a good

 swimmer."

 The naval officer used a handheld GPS to set his

 course to the submarine rendezvous.

 Jake Grafton walked down the hill from the

 Officers" Club and along the pier between the

 warehouses. He walked past foxholes and

 strongpoints made from piles of torn-up concrete,

 each of which contained a handful of marines, wideeyed young

 men in camouflage clothing and helmets, armed to the

 teem. Someone hi every strongpoint watched every step he

 took. He walked by the muzzles of a dozen machine

 guns and a few light artillery pieces.

 The whole area was well lit by floodlights mounted

 on the eaves of every warehouse. Some marines were

 gathered around a mobile kitchen, eating hot

 MRE'S, and some were gathered around a

 headquarters tent near the hurricaneproof

 warehouse. They all carried gas masks on their

 belts.

 Jake stopped at the tent and said hello to the landing

 force commander. Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt,

 who was still awake and keeping an eye on things at this

 hour. The colonel poured Jake a cup of

 coffee.

 "Your chief of staff, Captain Pascal, was here

 about an hour ago, Admiralea"...the colonel said.

 "He tells me that

 cleaning out that warehouse will take three more days. The

 ordnance crew from Nevada is working around the

 clock."

 Jake nodded. Gil Pascal was briefing him four

 times a day.

 "The men have been told that this whole operation is

 classified, not to be discussed with unauthorized

 personnelea"...Eckhardt replied.

 "Fine. Is there anything I can do for you, anything you

 need?"

 They discussed logistics for a few minutes, then the

 colonel said, "I assume you're keeping up with the

 news out of Havana, Admiral."

 "I was briefed before I came

 ashoreea"...Jake replied.

 "I got a message from Central Command advising

 me that there are large riots going on in three or

 four major Cuban cities."

 "I have heard that too."

 "Does that have any bearing on our posture here,

 sir"..."...the marine officer asked.

 "If I knew what the hell was going on,

 Colonel, you're the first man I'd tell.

 Washington isn't telling me diddlysquat. I

 don't think they know diddly-squat to tell. Yes,

 the intel summary says people are rioting in the streets

 in several Cuban towns, everyone in Washington is

 waiting for Castro to tell his people to shut up, for the

 troops to wade in. So far it hasn't happened."

 "Maybe Castro is deadea"...Lieutenant

 Colonel Eckhardt speculated.

 "God only knows. Just keep your people alert and

 ready. Three more days. Just three more."

 Try as they might, Ocho Sedano and the old

 fisherman could not get the water out of

 Angel del Mar.

 With both of them pushing and pulling on the pump handle

 they could just keep up with the water coming into the boat. If

 either of them stopped, and the other lacked the

 strength to work the pump quickly enough, the water level

 rose.

 They struggled all night against the rising water. At

 dawn they knew they were beaten. No one else on the

 boat was willing to come below and pump. Some said they were

 afraid of being trapped below deck if the boat should

 go under, and others plainly lacked the strength. The

 passengers of the

 Angel del Mar

 lay about the deck horribly sunburned,

 semiconscious, severely dehydrated and starving.

 On the evening of the previous day one woman drank

 sea water. The old fisherman didn't see her do

 it, but he knew she had when she began retching and

 couldn't stop. She retched herself into unconsciousness

 and died sometime during the night. When he went up on

 deck in the middle of the night, she was dead, lying in

 a pool of her own vomit.

 The other children were also dead. Three little corpses, now

 still forever.

 No one protested when he threw their bodies

 overboard.

 Then he went below to help Ocho.

 The losing battle was fought in total darkness against

 an inanimate pump handle and their own

 failing strength in a tossing, heaving boat as water

 swirled around their legs. Ocho prayed aloud,

 sobbed, babbled of his mother, of his

 deceased father, of the days he remembered from his youth.

  The old fisherman remained silent, not really

 listening to Ochowho never stopped pumpingbut thinking of

 his own life, of the women he had loved, of the hard

 things life had taught him. He would die soon,

 he knew, and somehow that was all right, a fitting thing,

 the proper end to the great voyage he had had through

 life. Life pounds you, he thought, knocks out the

 pride and piss of youth. Live long enough and you begin

 to see the big picture, see yourself as God must

 see you, as a flawed mortal speck of

 protoplasm whose fate is of little concern to anyone but

 you. You work, eat, sleep, defecate,

 reproduce, and die, precisely like all the

 others, no different really, and the planet turns and the

 star bums on, both quite indifferent to your fate.

  He understood the grand scheme now, and thought the knowledge

 worth very little. Certainly not worth the effort of

 telling what he knew to the boy, who would also die

 soon and lacked the fisherman's years and experience.

 No, the boy would not appreciate the wisdom that

 age had acquired.

  When the gray light from the coming day managed to find

 its way down the hatch and showed him the level of the

 water sloshing about, the old fisherman said "Enough.

 Ou. Up the ladder before she goes under."...He pulled

 Ocho away from the handle, shoved him up the ladder.

  "Up, up, damn you. I want out of here

 too."...The words made Ocho scramble out of the way.

  The sea was empty in every direction. The old

 fisherman looked carefully, then shook his head

 sadly. Where were the ships and boats that were usually

 here? Why had no one seen the drifting wreck of the

 Angel del

 Mar?

  "Into the ocean with you. The boat is sinking. You must

 get into the water, swim away, so the mast and lines

 will not trap you and pull you under when she sinks."

 They stared at him uncomprehendingly.

 "Into the water, or notea"...he said softly, "as you

 choose. May God be with you."

  And he walked aft and stepped off the stern of the

 ship into the sea. The salt water felt refreshing,

 welcomed him.

  Ocho Sedano stood on the rail a moment, then

 stumbled and fell in. He paddled toward the old

 man.

  "Ochoff"...Dora stood mere on deck, calling

 to him.

 "You must swimea"...Ocho said. "The boat is

 smking."...There was little freeboard remaining, the deck was

 almost awash. Indeed, even as he spoke a wave

 broke over the deck.

 Dora looked wildly about, unwilling to abandon the

 dubious safety of the boat Other people joined her, some

 on hands and knees, unable to stand. They looked at the

 two men hi the water, at the horizon, at the

 swells, at the sky.

 One woman rocked back and forth on her heels,

 moaning softly, her eyes open.

 "Swimea"...the old man toldjOcho. "Get away

 before it goes."

 He turned his back on the boat and began

 swimming. Ocho followed.

 After a minute or so Ocho ceased paddling and looked

 back. The boat was going under, people were trying to swim

 away. He heard a woman screaming-r-Dora,

 perhaps.

 The mast toppled slowly as the swells capsized

 Angel del Mar.

 Then, with an audible sigh as the last of the air

 escaped, the boat went under.

 Heads bobbed in the swellsjust how many Ocho

 couldn't tell.

 He ceased swimming. There was no place to go, no

 reason to expend the energy.

 He was so tired, so exhausted. He closed his

 eyes, felt the sun burning on his eyelids.

 He opened them when salt water choked him. He

 couldn't sleep in the sea.

 So that was how it would be. He would struggle to stay

 afloat until exhaustion and dehydration overcame

 him and he went to sleep, then he would drown.

 The screaming woman would not be quiet. She paused

 only to rill her lungs, then screamed on.

 A line in the sky caught his attention. A

 contrail. A jet conning against the blue. Oh,

 to be there, and not here. .

 He was listening to the screaming woman, trying not to go

 to sleep, when he felt something bump against his foot.

 Something solid.

 He lowered his face into the water, opened his eyes.

 Sharks!

 The president of the United States sat listening

 to the national security adviser with a scowl on his

 face. The president usually scowled when he

 didn't like what he was hearing, the chairman

 of the joint chiefs, General Tater Totten, thought

 sourly.

 The adviser was laying it out, card by card: The

 Cubans had at least six intermediate-range

 ballistic missiles, which the staff thought were

 probably sited in hidden silos, away from the

 cameras of reconnaissance planes and

 satellites. According to the documents obtained from the

 safe of Alejo Vargas, the missiles now

 carried biological warheads, apparently a

 super-virulent strain of polio. Some of the warheads

 stolen from

 Nuestra Sefiora de Coldn

 were now stacked in a warehouse on the waterfront in

 a Cuban provincial town, Antilla.

 Complicating everything were the riots and demonstrations

 going on in the large cities of Cuba. No one was

 moving aggressively to quell the unrest; the army was

 not patrolling the cities; in fact, people in Cuba were

 openly speculating that Fidel Castro was dead.

 CIA believed that Castro was indeed dead; the

 director said so at the start of the meeting.

 "If Castro has bit the big one, who is

 running the show down there? Who is the successor"..."...The

 secretary of state asked that question.

 "Hector Sedano, we hopeea"...the adviser said,

 glancing at the president, who was examining his

 fingernails. "Operation Flashlight was designed

 to whittle Alejo Vargas down to size."

 "Stealing a safeful of blackmail files will hurt

 Vargas, but it won't do much to help Hector

 Sedanoea"...General Totten muttered. "I seem

 to recall a CIA summary that says Hector

 might be in prison just now."

 "That's rightea"...the director agreed, nodding. "We

 think the rioting is directly due to the fact

 Sedano is in prison. The lid is coming off down

 there."

 "We've had our finger in a lot of Cuban

 piesea"...the president said disgustedly, folding his hands

 on the table in front of him. "Probably too

 many. I seem to recall that die CIA did some

 fast work with a computer, emptied Fidel's Swiss

 bank accounts."

 "The money is still hi those banksea"...the director said

 quickly. "We just created a few new accounts and

 moved the money to them. Don't want anyone to think

 we are into bank robbery these days."

 "Why not? This administration has been accused of

 everything elseea"...die president said

 lightly. Poking fun at himself was his talent, the

 reason he had made it to die very top of die heap

 in American politics. He laced bis fingers

 together, leaned back in his chair. "If we had any

 sense we would let die Cubans sort out their own

 problems. Lord knows we have enough of our own."

 A murmur of assent went around die table.

 Tater Totten sighed, took his letter of resignation

 from an inside jacket pocket and unfolded it,

 placed it on die table in front of him. Then he

 took out another letter, a request for immediate

 retirement, and placed it beside die first. He

 smoothed out both documents, put on his glasses,

 looked diem over.

 The secretary of state was sitting beside him. She

 looked over to see what Totten was reading. When she

 realized she was looking at a letter of resignation, she

 leaned closer.

 "What is today"..."...later whispered. "The date?"

  "The seventh."

  General Totten got out his ink pen, wrote the

 date in ink on the top of the letter of resignation and the

 letter requesthag retirement. Then he signed both

 letters and put his pen back hi his pocket.

  "... our willingness to work with the new

 government. In fact, I think this would be an

 excellent time to end the American embargo of

 Cuba...."...The national security adviser was

 talking, apparently reciting a speech he had

 rehearsed with the president earlier today. As the

 adviser talked, the president had been looking

 around die room, watching faces for reactions. Just

 now he was looking at Tater Totten with narrowed

 eyes.

  He knows, the general thought.

  When the adviser wound down, the president spoke

 before anyone else could. "General Totten, you look

 like a man with something to say."

  "We can't ignore six ICBM'S armed with

 biological warheads. We can't ignore a lab

 for manufacturing toxins. We can't ignore a

 warehouse full of stolen CBW warheads." He

 leaned forward in his chair, looked straight at the

 president, whose brow was furrowing into a scowl.

 "Fifty million Americans are within range of

 those missiles. We must move

 right now

 to disarm those missiles, put the Cubans out of the

 biological warfare business, and recover those

 stolen warheads. We have absolutely no

 choice. When they find out what the threat is, the

 American people are not going to be hi the mood to listen

 to excuses."

  Tater Totten looked around the table at the

 pale, drawn faces. Every eye hi the room was on

 him. "If one of those missiles gets launched at

 America, everyone hi this room will be responsible.

 That is the hard, cold reality. All this happy

 talk about lifting embargoes and a new era of peace

 hi the Caribbean is beside the point. We can't

 ignore weapons of mass destruction aimed at

 innocent Americans."

  The silence that followed lasted for several

 seconds, un-

 til the president broke it. "General, no one

 is suggesting we ignore those missiles. The question

 is how we can best deal with the reality of their presence.

 My initial reaction is to wait until a new

 government takes over in Cuba, then to talk with them

 about disarmament and return of the stolen warheads in

 return for lifting the embargo. Reasonable people will

 see the advantages for each side."

 "Your mistakeea"...General Totten replied, "is

 thinking that reasonable people will be involved in the

 negotiations. Reasonable people don't build

 CBW weapons of mass destructionunreasonable people

 do. Unreasonable people use mem to commit murder for

 ends they could achieve in no other way, ends they

 think are worth other people's blood to attain. Now,

 that,

 by God, is reality."

 The secretary of state had snaked the chairman's

 letter of resignation over hi front of her while he

 was speaking. Now she showed it to the director of the

 CIA, who was on her left.

 "What is that document"..."...the president asked.

 "My letter of resignationea"...Tater Totten said

 blandly. "I haven't decided whether to submit it

 now or later."

 As the president's upper lip curled hi a

 sneer, the secretary of state put the letter back on

 the table in front of disthe general.

 "Totten, you son of a bitch!

 I'm

 the man responsible."

 "I have to sleep nightsea"...Tater shot back.

 "You reveal classified information to the press,

 I'll have you prosecuted."...The president knew

 damn well that Totten would hold a press conference

 and tell all. "You'll spend your

 goddamn retirement in a federal pen," the

 president snarled.

 "Bullshit! When the public finds out about polio

 warheads on ICBM'S aimed at Florida, the

 tidal wave is going to wash you away."...General

 Totten pointed a finger at the president.

 "Don't fuck this up, cowboy: there are too many

 American lives at stake. Now isn't the time

 for a friendly game of Russian roulette."

 "Okayea"...the president said, lifting his hands and showing

 the palms. "Okay! What's the date on that letter?"

  "Today."

  "Make it a week from today. We'll do this your

 way, and a week from today you're permanently off to the

 golf course with your mouth welded shut."

  Totten got out his pen, changed the date on both

 the letters, and passed them across the table to the president,

 who didn't even glance at them.

  "Better get cracking, Generalea"...the president

 snarled.

  "Yes, sirea"...sd Tater Totten. He rose

 from his chair and walked out of the room.

  At the same time the president and National

 Security Council were meeting in Washington, the

 Council of State of the communist government

 of Cuba was meeting in Havana.

  "Where is FidelThat someone roared at Alejo

 Vargas as he walked into the room, flanked

 by Colonel Santana on one side and a

 plainclothes secret policeman on the other.

 Santana limped as he walked. He was heavily

 bandaged about the head and left arm, and moved like a man

 who was very sore.

  Vice President Raul Castro watched

 Alejo Vargas take his seat at the table beside die

 other ministers. His face was mottled, his anger

 palpable. He motioned for silence, smacked a

 wooden gavel against the table until he got it, then

 looked Vargas straight in the face.

  "Where is my brother?"

  "Dead."

  "And you have hidden the body."

  "The body is being prepared for a state funeral.

 I didn't think anyone would object."

  "Liarff"...Ratil Castro spit out the word. He

 stood, leaned on the table, and shouted at Vargas.

 "Liarst I think you murdered Fidel. I think you

 murdered him so mat you could take over the

 country."...He waved at the window. "The

 people out there think so too. You have murdered my

 brother and arrested the man that he hoped would eventually

 succeed him, Hector Sedano. Jesus, man, the

 whole country is coming apart at the seams; they are

 rioting in the streets!"

 Alejo Vargas examined the faces around the table

 while Raul shouted. Maximo Sedano was there, his

 face impassive. Many of the faces could not be read.

 Most of them merely wanted food to eat and a place

 to live, something better than the people in the cane

 fields had. They went to their offices every day,

 obeyed Fidel's orders, took the blame when

 things went wrongas they usually did watched Fidel

 take the credit if things went right, and soldiered

 on. That had been a way of Me for these people for two

 generationsforty yearsand now it was over.

 "... the people loved Fidelea"...Raul was saying,

 "honored and respected him as the greatest patriot

 in the history of Cuba, and I think you, Alejo

 Vargas, had a hand in his death. I accuse you of his

 murder."

 "Watch your mouthea"...Santana told him, but Raul

 turned on him like an enraged bear.

 "I am vice president of the republic, first in

 line of succession upon the death of the

 presidentea"...Raul thundered at the

 colonel. "Maintain your silence or be evicted."

 Alejo Vargas had already removed his pistol from his

 pocket while he sat at the table listening

 to Raul. Now he raised it, extended it to arm's

 length, and squeezed the trigger. Before anyone could

 move he pumped three bullets into Raul

 Castro, who fell sideways, knocking over his

 chair. The reports were like thunderclaps in the room,

 leaving the audience stunned and slightly deafened.

 Alejo Vargas got to his feet, holding the

 pistol casually in front of him in his right hand,

 "Does anyone else wish to accuse me of

 murder?"

 Total, complete silence. Vargas looked from

 face to face, trying to make eye contact with everyone

 willing. Most averted their eyes when he looked

 into their face.

 "Colonel Santana, please remove Senor

 Castro from the room. He is ill."

 As a bandaged Santana and the plainclothesman were

 carrying out the body, Alejo Vargas again seated

 himself. He placed the pistol on the table in front

 of him.

 "I will chair this meetingea"...he said. "We

 are here today to decide what must be done in light of the

 recent death of our beloved president, Fidel

 Castro. He fought a long, valiant fight against

 the disease of cancer, which claimed him four days ago.

 Of course the news could not be publicly announced

 until the Council of State had been informed and

 decisions reached on the question of succession.

 "I do hereby officially inform you of the tragedy of

 Fidel Castro's passing, and declare this meeting open

 to discuss the question of naming a successor to the office of

 president."

 With that Vargas reached across the table and seized die

 gavel that Raiil Castro had used. He tapped

 it several times on the table, sharp little raps that made

 several people flinch.

 "This meeting is officially openea"...he declared. "Who

 would like to speak first?"'

 No one said a word.

 "The news of our beloved president's death has

 hit everyone hardea"...Vargas said. "I understand. Yet

 the business of our nation cannot wait. L hereby

 nominate myself for the office of president. Do I

 hear a second?"

 "I second the nominationea"...sd General Alba, his

 voice carrying in the silence.

 "Let the record show that I move to make the

 nomination unanimousea"...Admiral Delgado said, his

 voice quavering a little.

 "I second that motionea"...General Alba replied,

 "and move that the nominations be closed."

 One would almost mink they rehearsed that, Alejo

 Vargas thought, and gave the two general officers a

 nod of gratitude.

 * * *

 Sharks!

 The silent predators came gliding in even as

 Ocho Sedano watched with his face hi the water,

 gray, streamlined torpedoes swimming effortlessly

 through the half-light under the surface. They seerned

 to be swimming toward the place where the

 Angel del Mar

 had just gone under. No doubt the turbulence and noise

 from the sinking boat attracted them.

 The people thrashing about on the surface were also making

 noise. Nature had equipped the sharks to sense the

 death struggles of other creatures, and to come to feed.

 He raised his head from the water, shouted, "Sharks.

 Sharks."...His voice was very hoarse, his throat

 terribly dry. He sucked up a mouthful of

 salty seawater, men spit it out.

 "Sharks!

 Do not struggle. Swim away from the wreck, from each

 other."

 He didn't know if anyone heard him or not.

 A scream split the air, then was cut off

 abruptly, probably as the person screaming was

 pulled under.

 Another scream. Shouts of "Sharksff"...and calls

 to God.

 He felt something rub against his leg, and kicked

 back viciously. With his face in the water he could

 see the shark, a big one, maybe eight feet,

 swimming toward the concentration of people in the water.

 He turned the other way, began swimming slowly

 away.

 The old fisherman was nearby, doing the same.

 "Do not panicea"...the old man said. "Swim slowly,

 steadfly."

 "The others ..."

 "There is nothing we can do. God is with them."

 He heard several more screams, a curse or two,

 then nothing. He didn't want to hear. And he was

 swimming into the wind, so the sound would not carry so

 well.

 Dora was back there. If she got off the

 boat. He couldn't remember if she leaped from the

 boat before it sank. Perhaps she drowned when the boat

 went down. If so, that was

 God's mercy. Better that than being eaten by a

 shark, having a leg ripped half off, or an arm,

 then bleeding hi agony until the sharks tore you

 to pieces or pulled you under to drown.

  That mere were still things, on this earth that ate people was an

 evil more foul than anything he had ever imagined.

  He tired of swimming and stopped once, but the

 old fisherman encouraged him.

  "Don't die here, son. Swim farther, get

 away from the sharks."

  "They're everywhereea"...Ocho replied, with impeccable

 logic.

  "Swim fartherea"...the old man said, and so he did.

  Finally they stopped. How far they had come they had

 no way of knowing. The sea rose and fell hi a

 timeless, eternal rhythm, the wind occasionally ripped

 spume from a crest and sent it flying, puffy clouds

 scudded along, the sun beat down.

  "We will die out hereea"...he told the old man, who

 was only'ab ten feet away.

 f

 The fisherman didn't reply. What was

 there to say?

  Even the tragedy of Dora couldn't keep him

 awake. He kept dozing off, then awakening when

 water went into his nose and mouth.

  In the afternoon he thought he saw a ship, a sailing

 ship with three masts and square sails set to catch

 the trade winds. Maybe he only imagined it.

 He also thought he saw more contrails high in the sky,

 but he might have imagined those too.

  He would swim until he died, he decided.

 That was all a man could do. He would do that and God

 would know he tried and forgive him his sins and take him

 into heaven.

  Somehow that thought gave him peace.

  "Gentlemen, your backing this morning touched me

 deeply."

  Alejo Vargas was sitting with General Alba and

 Admiral

 STEPHEN COONTS

  Delgado in his office at the Ministry of

 Interior. Colonel Santana was parked in a

 chair near the window with his leg on a stool and a

 bandage around his head.

 "What happened to you, Colonel"..."...General Alba

 asked.

 "I was in an accident."

 "Traffic gets worse and worse."

 "Yes."

 "Gentlemen, let's get right down to itea"...Alejo

 Vargas began. "Right now I don't have the

 support of the people. The mobs are out of control. We

 must restore order and confidence in the government; that

 is absolutely critical."

 Delgado and Alba nodded. Even a dictator

 needs some level of popular support. Or at

 least acceptance by a significant percentage of the

 population.

 "I propose to move on two fronts. I will

 send a delegate to Hector Sedano, see if

 he can be enlisted to endorse me. Getting out of

 prison will be an inducement, of course, but one can't

 rely on anything that flimsy. I thought of naming him

 as ambassador to the Vatican."

 "That would be a popular moveea"...Alba thought, and

 Delgado agreed.

 "All my adult life I have been a student of

 Fidel Castro's political wilesea"...Vargas

 continued. "I learned many things from watching the master.

 This may seem to you gentlemen to be heresy, but without

 the United States, Castro would have lasted

 only a few years in powerhad the world turned in the

 usual way he would have been overthrown by a coup or

 mass uprising when it became obvious that he could not

 deliver on his promises. Fidel Castro

 survived because he had a scapegoat: he had the

 United States to blame for all our

 difficulties."

 "One should not say things like that publicly, but there is

 much truth in that observation."

 "The Yanquis never failed to play their part in

 Fidel's little dramasea"...Delgado agreed, and

 everyone in the room laughed, even Santana.

 When his audience was again attentive, Alejo

 Vargas

 continued: "I propose to unite the Cuban people against

 the United States one more time, and this time I shall be out

 in front leading them."

 Jake Grafton had dinner that evening with the commanding

 officers of the units in the battle group. In

 addition to the skippers of the ships, the marine landing force

 commander, Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt, and the

 air wing commander aboard

 United States

 were also there. Held in the carrier's flag wardroom,

 the dinner was one of those rare official

 functions when everyone relaxed enough to enjoy themselves.

 Surrounded by fellow career officers, Admiral

 Grafton once again felt that sense of belonging

 to something bigger than the people who comprised it that had charmed

 him about the service thirty years ago. The

 tradition, the camaraderie, the sense of engaging in

 an activity whose worth could not be measured in

 dollars or years of service made the brutally

 long hours, the family separations, and the demands of

 service life somehow easier to endure.

 He was basking in that glow when one of his aides

 slipped in a side door and handed him a

 top-secret flash message from Washington.

 Jake put on his glasses before he took the

 message from the folder.

 He scanned the message, then read it again slowly.

 Ballistic missiles in Cuba, biological

 warheads, Castro dead comhe thanked the aide, who

 left the room.

 Jake read the message again very carefully as me

 afterdinner conversation buzzed around him. The message

 ordered him to stage commando raids on the suspected

 ballistic missile sites, "as soon as

 humanly possible, before the missiles can be launched

 at the United States."

 "Gentlemen, let us adjourn to the flag

 spacesea"...Jake Grafton said, and led the commanders

 from the wardroom.

 When the group was together in the flag spaces, with the

 door closed behind them, Jake said, "The course of

 human events has catapulted us straight

 into another mess. I just received this message from

 Washington."...He read it

 to them. When he finished, no one said anything. Jake

 folded the message and returned it to the red folder.

 He turned to the captains of the two Aegis-class

 guidedmissile cruisers that were assigned to his

 battle group:

 "I want you to get underway as soon as you get

 back to your ships. Take your ships through the

 Windward Passage, then proceed at flank

 speed to a position between the island of Cuba and the

 Florida Keys that allows you to engage and destroy

 any missiles fired from Cuba toward the United

 States. Make every knot you can squeeze out of your

 ships. Every minute counts. When you come up with an

 estimated time of arrival, send it to me. We

 won't lift a finger against the Cubans until both

 your ships are in position."

 He shook hands with the captains, and they

 strode out of the room.

 "The rest of us might as well get comfortable.

 Looks like we are in for a long evening."

 Ocho Sedano looked at it for fifteen minutes

 before the thought occurred to him that he should find out what it

 was. Something white, floating perhaps fifteen feet

 away, slightly off to his right.

 Now that the existence of the white thing had registered on

 his consciousness, he made the effort to turn, to stroke

 toward it.

 He had been in the water all day. The sun would

 soon be down and he would be alone on die sea.

 After the sharks this morning there had been only Ocho

 and the old man; now the fisherman no longer answered

 his calls. Hadn't for several hours, in fact.

 Maybe he just drifted out of hailing range, Ocho

 thought. That must be it.

 The sharks killed all the others, sparing only the

 two men who had gone off the sinking boat first and

 swam away from the group. At least he thought the

 others were dead he had no way of knowing the truth of

 it.

 He had thought about the decision to swim away from the

 sinking

 Angel del Mar

 all day, off and on, trying to

 decide just what instinct had told him and the old man

 to get away from the others. Drowning people often drag under

 anyone they can reachno doubt that knowledge was a factor in the

 old man's thinking, in his thinking, for he did not

 want to put the respensibility for his life on

 anyone but himself.

 Perhaps those who were attacked by the sharks were the lucky

 ones. Their ordeal was over.

 Dorahad she been one of them?

 Diego Coca was already dead, of course. He

 died... a day or two ago... didn't he?

 Jumped into the sea and swam away from the

 Angel del Mar.

 Ah, Diego, you ass. I hope you are burning in

 hell.

 He reached for the white thing, which of course skittered out

 of reach. He paddled some more, reached up under it.

 A milk jug. A one-gallon plastic milk

 jug without a cap, floating upside down.

 Apparently intact. He lifted the milky white

 plastic jug from the sea, let the water drain out,

 then lowered it into the water. The thing made a powerful

 float.

 He pulled it toward him.

 Hard to hold on to, but very buoyant.

 How could he hold it, use the power of its

 buoyancy to keep himself afloat through the night?

 Inside his shirt? He worked comthe jug down, Jried

 to get it under his shirt. The thing escaped once, shot

 out of the water. He snagged it, tried it again.

 The second time he got it under his shirt. The thing

 tried to push him over backward, but if he leaned

 into it, he could keep his weight pretty much balanced

 over it. Then he could just float, ride without effort.

 As long as he could keep the open neck facing

 downward, the jug would keep him up.

 Ocho was celebrating his good fortune when a swell

 tipped him over. He fought back upright, adjusted

 the jug in the evening light.

 Maybe he should just forget the jughe seemed to be working

 as hard staying over it as he did treading water.

 With the last rays of the sun in his face, he decided

 to keep the jug, learn to ride it.

 "I'm going to be rescuedea"...he said silently

 to himself, "going to be rescued. I must just have

 patience."

 After a bit he added, "And faith in the Lord."

 Ocho was a Catholic, of course, but he had never

 been one to pray much. He wondered if he

 should pray now. Surely God knew about the mess

 he was inwhat could he conceivably tell Him that He

 didn't already know?

 In the twilight the water became dark. Still restless,

 still rising and falling, but dark and black as the grave.

 He would probably die this night. Sometime during the

 night he would go to sleep and drown or a shark would

 rip at him or he would just run out of will. He was oh

 so very tired, a lethargy that weighed on every muscle.

 Tonight,

 he thought.

 But I don't want to die. I want to live!

 Please, God, let me live one more day. If

 I am not rescued tomorrow, then let me die tomorrow

 night.

 That was a reasonable request. His strength would give

 out by tomorrow night anyway.

 The last of the light faded from the sky, and he was alone

 on the face of the sea.

 La Cabana Prison was an old pile of

 masonry. In the hot, humid climate of Cuba

 the interior was cool, a welcome respite from the

 heat. Yet in the dark corridors filled with

 stagnant air the odor of mold and decay seemed

 almost overpowering. The iron bars and grates

 and cell doors were wet with condensation and covered with

 layers of rust.

 During the day small windows with nearly opaque,

 dirty glass admitted what light there was. At

 night naked bulbs hanging where two corridors

 met or an iron gate barred the way lit the

 interior; and for whole stretches of corridors and

 cells there was no light at all.

 Hector Sedano saw the flashlight even before he

 heard people coming along the corridor. One flashlight

 and two

 or three, maybe even four peopleit was

 difficult to tell.

 The flashlight led the visitors to this cell, and it

 turned to pin him on the cot.

 "There he is."

 "I will talk to him alone."

 "Yes,

 Senor Presidente."

 One man remained standing in the semidarkness outside

 the cell after the others left. After the flashlight

 Hector's eyes adjusted slowly. Now he could

 see himAlejo Vargas.

 Vargas lit a short cigarillo. As he struck

 the match Hector closed his eyes, and

 kept them closed until he smelled tobacco

 smoke and heard Vargas's voice.

 "Father Sedano, we meet again."

 Hector thought that remark didn't deserve a

 reply.

 "I seem to recall a conversation we had, whattwo

 or three years ago"..."...Vargas said thoughtfully. "I

 told you that religion and politics don't mix."

 "You even had a biblical quote ready to fire

 at me, Mark twelve-seventeen. Most

 unexpected."

 "You didn't take my advice."

 "No."

 "You don't often follow advice, do you?"

 "No."

 "I came here tonight to see if you wish to make your

 peace with Caesar and join my cabinet, perhaps as our

 ambassador to the Church."

 "You're the president now?"

 'Temporarily, Until the election."

 "Then the title will become permanent."

 "I don't think anyone will want to run against me."

 "Perhaps not."

 "But let's take it a day at a time. Temporary

 acting president Vargas asks you to serve

 your country in this capacity."

 "And if I say no?"

 STEPHEN COONTS

  "I want to sleep with a clean conscience, which is

 why I came here tonight to make the offer."

 "Your conscience is easily cleansed if that is all

 it takes."

 "It does not trouble me too much."

 "A man who lives as you do, a lively conscience

 would hurt worse than a bad tooth."

 "So your answer is no."

 "That it is."

 "But at least you considered my offer, so I can sleep

 knowing you chose your own fate."

 "My fate is in God's hands."

 "Ah, if only I had the time to discuss religion

 with you, an intelligent, learned man. Time does not

 allow me that luxury. Still, I have one other little thing

 to discuss with you, and I caution you, this is not the time for a

 yes or no answer. This thing you must think about very

 carefully and give me your answer later."

 Sedano scratched his head. Vargas probably

 couldn't see past the glow of his cigarillo tip, so

 it didn't matter much what he did.

 "I want to know what Fidel did with the

 gold from the pesos. I want you to tell me."

 "Me? I was six years old when he melted the

 gold, if he did."

 "I think you know. I think Fidel told

 Mercedes, and Mercedes told you. So I have come

 to ask you where it is. Will you tell me?"

 "She didn't tell me about gold."

 "I should not have asked so quickly. I told myself I

 would not do that, then I did. I apologize. I will

 ask you later, when you have had time to think about the question and

 all the implications."

 "I can't tell you what I don't know."

 "Well, think about it; that is all I ask. Of

 course I will talk to Mercedes. I think she also

 told you or the CIA about Fidel's Swiss

 bank accounts. When Maximo went to get the money

 it was not there. I would like to have been there

 to see the look on Maximo's faceah, yes,

 that

 was a moment, my friend!"

 He chuckled, then drew on the cigarillo, made

 the tip glow.

 "Maximo thinks the Swiss stole it; he is very

 gullible. I smell the CIA. The CIA could

 reach into Swiss banks as easily as you and

 I breathe."

 'The world is quite complex."

 "Isn't it"..."...Vargas sighed. "All the strings lead

 to Mercedes. She knew too much for her own good. I

 think she will do the right thing. She is a loyal

 patriot. With Colonel Santana asking the

 questions, I have faith that she will do what is best for

 Cuba."

 Hector could feel the sweat beading up on his

 forehead. He made sure his voice was under his

 complete control before he spoke. "For Cuba?"

 "For Cuba, yes. Cuba and me, our interests are

 identical. I want the gold, Father, and I intend

 to get it. Able you sit here rotting, you think about that."

 Alejo Vargas turned and walked away, still puffing

 on the cigarillo. ,

 The smell of the tobacco smoke lingered in the cell for

 hours. Hector fancied that he could still smell it

 when daylight began shining through the window high in the

 wall at the end of the corridor.

 The submariners put the computer in a plastic

 garbage bag to keep it dry, then put bag and

 computer into a backpack that one of the sailors had for

 his liberty gear. William Henry Chance put on

 the backpack and the sailors adjusted the

 straps.

 . "You should be okay, sirea"...they said. At a nod from

 the sound-powered telephone talker, Chance started up

 the ladder with Tommy Carmellini right behind him. They

 came out of the hatch on the submarine's deck forward

 of the island. The deck wasn't much, merely wet

 steel that curved away right and left into the black

 ocean.

 Hovering hi the darkness overhead was a helicopter the

 downwash from the rotor blades made it hard

 to breathe. Amid the comflashing lights and spotlights,

 his eyes had a hard time adjustingChance felt almost

 blind. One of the sailors on the deck put a horse

 collar over his head and he went up into the chopper

 first. Then Carmellini.

 A strong set of hands pulled him into the chopper.

 After a wave at the officers in the sail cockpit,

 Carmellini used hands and feet to get over to the

 canvas bench opposite the open door where Chance

 had found a seat.

 Forty-five minutes later the helicopter landed on

 the flight deck of USS

 United States.

 As the rotors wound down, an officer in khakis

 came to the chopper's door, and shouted,

 "Mr. Chance? Mr. Carmellini?"

 "Right here,"

 "My name is Toad Tarkington. Will you gentlemen

 come with me, pleddase? The admiral is waiting."

 Tommy Carmellini felt completely out of

 place, completely lost. After the submarine and the

 helicopter, the strange sounds, smells, and

 sensations of the huge ship underway in a night sea

 seemed to max out his ability to adjust.

 The compartment where Toad took the two agents was

 packed with people, all talking among themselves. Still, compared

 to the flight deck and the sensations of the helicopter, it

 was an oasis of calm. Toad led them to a corner

 of the room and introduced them to Rear Admiral

 Jake Grafton.

 Grafton was a trim officer about six feet

 tall. The admiral's gray eyes captured

 Tommy's caret attention. The eyes seemed

 to measure you from head to foe, see all there was to see,

 then move on. Only when the eyes looked elsewhere

 did you see that Grafton's nose was a trifle

 too large, and one side of his forehead bore an

 old scar that was slightly less tan than the skin

 surrounding it.

 Toad Tarkington was several inches shorter

 than the admiral and heavier through the shoulders. He was

 a tireless whirlwind who dazzled a person meeting

 him for the first time with quick wit and boundless energy, which

 seemed to radiate from him like the aura of the sun. He

 smiled easily and often, revealing a set of

 perfect white teeth that would have made any dentist

 proud.

 Jake Grafton and William Henry Chance

 stood behind Toad watching him work Alejo

 Vargas's computer. Toad stared at the screen

 intently while his fingers flew over the keys.

 Soon they were plotting positions on a chart. "Those

 missiles have to be at these locations,

 Admiralea"...Toad said, pointing at the places he

 had marked on the chart, "or the data in the computer

 is worthless." He looked over his shoulder at

 Chance. "Could this computer be a plant?"

 Chance glanced at Carmellini, who was sitting in a

 chair against the wall studying the layout and furnishings

 of the planning space and the knots of people engaged in a

 variety

 STEPHEN COONTS

 of tasks. The roar of conversation made the place

 seem greatly disorganized, which Tommy realized was

 an illusion. Charts on the wall

 decorated with classified information, planning tables,

 file cabinets sporting serious padlocks,

 battle lanterns on the overhead, copy machines,

 burn bagsthe place, reminded him of the inner

 sanctums of the CIA'S headquarters at

 Langley.

 "Very doubtfulea"...Chance answered, and bent over to study

 the chart Toad was marking.

 "I make it six sitesea"...Toad said.

 "Could there be more missiles"..."...Jake Grafton

 asked. He too glanced at Carmellini, then

 turned to Chance. "You see the pitfalls if there are

 missiles we don't know about?"

 "Yes, sir. I can only say we have seen

 evidence for at least six."

 "Six silosea"...Toad mused, studying the locations.

 "There is a warhead manufacturing facility

 someplace on that islandea"...Chance said. "The viruses

 would have to be dried out, put in whatever medium the

 Cubans believe will keep them alive and virulent

 and dormant until the warhead explodes, then the

 medium sealed inside the warheads. The facility will

 not be large, but it will have clean rooms, ah-

 scrubbers, remote handling equipment, and I would

 think a fairly well equipped lab on

 site."

 "Any ideas"..."...Jake Grafton asked.

 "I was hoping that the satellite reconnaissance people

 might be able to find the site if wejtell them what

 to look for."

 "We'll have them look, certainly, but ypu have no

 independent information about where this facility might be?"

 "No."

 Jake motioned to Carmellini, who leaned in so that he

 could hear better. "Here is the situationea"...the

 admiral said. "The White House has ordered us

 to go get those missile silos as soon as possible.

 Bombing the silos is outwe are to remove the

 warheads and destroy the missiles. What my staff

 and these other folks here tonight are trying to decide

 is how best to go about doing what the president wants

 us to do. Obviously, if we had enough time we could bring

 in forces from the States and assault the silo

 locations with forces tailored for the job. If we had

 enough time we could even do a dress rehearsal, make

 sure everyone is on the same sheet of music.

 Unfortunately, the White House wants the

 silos taken out as soon as possible."

 "How soon is possible"..."...Chance asked.

 Jake Grafton took a deep breath,

 then let it out slowly. "That's the sixty-four

 dollar question. We must find out what's there before we go

 charging in."

 He stood, walked over to a chart of Cuba that was

 posted on the bulkhead. He was looking at a

 penciled line on the chart that went through the Windward

 Passage and along the northern coast of Cuba*

 all the way to the narrowest portion of the Florida

 Straits. The cruisers should be in position by six

 o'clock this evening.

 Jake turned from the chart and gestured at the people at the

 planning tables. "These folks are just looking at

 possibilities. We must assemble sufficient

 forces to do the job, yet we run huge risks if

 we take the time to assemble overwhelming force. There

 is a balance there. When we see the latest

 satellite stuff we'll have a better idea."

 "I would be amazed if there are any troops around

 these silos," William Henry Chance said.

 IT-HEIR existence has been overlooked by two

 generations of photo interpretation specialists. The

 Cubans know that the whole island is painstakingly

 photographed on a regular basiswe've been

 looking at those damned silos for forty years and

 didn't know what they were. They must be

 underground and well camouflaged."

 "I'm not sending anybody after those things until I

 know what the opposition isea"...Jake said bluntly.

 "I don't launch suicide missions."

 "Are the silos your only target"..."...Chance asked.

 Jake Grafton examined the tall agent with

 narrowed eyes. "What do you mean?"

 "The Cubans grew the viruses for their warheads in

 a lab in the science building of the University of

 Havana. If we walk off with the warheads in the

 missiles, there is nothing to prevent the Cubans from

 cooking up another batch and putting it in planes

 to spray all over Florida and Georgia and

 wherever."

 "You are suggesting that we target their lab?"

 "I highly recommended it. Chances to step on

 cockroaches are few and far between: we better put

 Alejo Vargas out of business while we have the

 chance."

 "All I can do is make a recommendation

 to Washingtonea"...the admiral said.

 "And the processing facility. If we are going

 to take Cuba out of the biological warfare

 business, we should do it right."

 "Can we bomb any of these

 places"..."...Toad Tarkington asked.

 "Oh, noea"...Chance said. "A bomb exploding in a

 lab full of poliomyelitis virus would be the

 equivalent of a biological warhead detonating.

 The virus would be explosively liberated.

 Everyone downwind for a couple hundred miles,

 maybe even farther, would probably die. No, the

 only way to destroy the virus is with fire."

 Jake Grafton scratched his head.

 "The temperature would have to come up really quickly

 to kill the viruses before the place started venting to the

 atmosphereea"...Chance added. "A regular old house

 fire wouldn't do it. We need something a lot

 hotter."

 'The fires of hellea"...Toad said, and his listeners

 nodded.

 The first batches of satellite imagery began coming

 off the printers within an hour after the suspected silo

 locations were encrypted and transmitted. The air

 intelligence specialists were soon bent over the

 images, studying them with magnifying glasses. Before

 long Jake Grafton was shoulder to shoulder with the

 experts.

 "This first location looks like it's smack in the middle

 of a sugarcane fieldea"...the senior Air

 Intelligence officer groused.

 Jake Grafton didn't have to think that over very

 long. "Let's assume that our global positioning

 is more accurate than the Cubans"."

 "You mean they don't know the silos' exact

 latstlong locations?"

 "Precisely."

 "Well, the nearest building to this sugarcane field

 is this large barn, which is about three-quarters of a

 kilometer away."...The specialist pointed. Jake

 used the magnifying glass.

 "That could be itea"...he muttered. "Let's see what

 we can dig out of the archives. How long has this barn

 been here, have there ever been any large trucks

 aroundlet's look in all seasons of the yearand are

 Cuban Army units nearby? I'm really

 interested in army units."

 "Power linesea"...the senior AI officer mused.

 "Strikes me that there ought to be a large power feed

 nearby."

 "It sort of fitsea"...Toad Tarkington said

 to Jake. "If they built the barn first, then they could

 dig the silo inside the barn and truck the dirt out

 at night, pour concrete, do all the work at

 night."

 "Install the missile at night when the thing is

 finishedea"...the AI officer said, continuing the thought, "and

 if they had no unusual activity near the barn,

 no one would ever be the wiser."

 "Prove to me that that is what they didea"...Jake said.

 "And prove that we won't be sending troops into an

 ambush."

 The admiral stood amid the banks of computers and

 watched the operators trade data via

 satellite with the computers at the National Security

 Agency in Maryland.

 The CIA agents were fed and given bunks to sleep

 in. They went without protest. Someone brought Jake

 Grafton a cup of coffee, which he sipped as he

 walked around the intel and planning spaces thinking about

 intermediate-range ballistic missiles with

 biological warheads.

 STEPHEN COONTS

 Dawn found Ocho Sedano still afloat, still hanging

 grimly on to the milk jug and treading water. He

 had stopped thinking hours ago. Hunger and

 exhaustion had sapped his strength and thirst had

 thickened his blood. He was not asleep, nor was he

 awake, but in some semiconscious state in between.

 He found himself looking into the glare of the

 rising sun as it rose from the sea. The realization that

 he had made it through the night crossed his mind, as

 did the certainty that today was the last day.

 Today, someone must find me

 today....

 The television lights were on and the cameras running

 when Alejo Vargas walked to the podium in the main

 reception room of the presidential palace in

 Havana. For forty years Fidel Castro had

 used this forum to speak to the Cuban people and the worldnow it was

 Alejo's turn.

 "We are hereea"...he began, "at a desperate hour

 in our nation's life. The greatest Cuban patriot

 of them all, Fidel Castro, died here five days

 ago. Everyone listening to my voice knows the

 details of his career and the greatness of the leadership he

 provided for Cuba. I was with him when he died"...here

 Vargas wiped tears from his eyes"...and I can tell you,

 it was the most profound moment of my life.

 "Yesterday the Council of State elected me

 interim president, to hold office until the next

 meeting of the National Assembly, which as you know

 elects members of the Council of State and

 selects xs'president. I swore to the ministers

 and the Council of Stare that I would uphold

 the Constitution and defend Cuba with all my strength.

 Now I swear it to you."

 He paused again and gathered himself. "Today there are people

 on the streets who accuse me of murdering Fidel.

 May God strike me dead if I am guilty of

 that crime."

 He paused, took several deep breaths, and since

 God didn't terminate him then and there, continued:

 "Fidel Castro died of cancer. His body shall lie

 in state for the next three days. If you love

 Cuba, I invite you to pay your respects to this

 great man, and to look at his corpse. See if there

 is a single mark of violence on the body. My

 enemies have accused me of many things, but the murder of

 Cuba's greatest patriot is the most vicious

 cut of all. I too worshiped Fidel. Look

 at the body carefullylet the evidence of your own

 eyes prove the falsity of these accusations against

 me."

 Here again he had to pause to wipe his eyes, to steady

 himself before the podium.

 "I have been accused of other crimes, so I take

 this opportunity to bare my soul before you, to tell you the

 truth as God Almighty knows it, so you will know the

 lies of my enemies when you hear them. My

 enemies are also whispering that I killed Raul

 Castro at a meeting of the Council of State

 yesterday, when the facts of his brother's death were first

 announced. The truth is Raul was murdered as he

 stood at the table discussing the hopes and dreams of his

 dead brother, by Hector Sedano. Raul Castro

 was shot down before a dozen eyewitnesses, myself

 included. I swear to you this day that Hector Sedano

 will pay the price the law requires for his crime."

 He paused again here, referred to his notes.

 Someone had to take the fall for shooting Ratil, so

 why not Hector?

 "The story of our country is a story of struggle,

 a struggle between the socialist people of Cuba and the evil

 forces of capitalism, forces controlled and

 dominated by the United States, the colossus to the

 north. The struggle was not won by Fidel, although he

 fought the great fightit continues even today. For

 example, while they are representing to the world that they

 are destroying their inventory of chemical and

 biological weapons, the United States has

 introduced these weapons to Cuban soil."

 The camera panned to the artillery shell resting on

 its base on a table beside the podium. His

 "Here is an American artillery shell

 loaded with the bac-

 teria that causes anthrax, one of the deadliest

 diseases known to disman. This shell was stored in a

 warehouse at the American naval base at

 Guantanamo Bay, which is sacred Cuban

 soil. The Americans were unwilling to keep

 thenpoisonous filth in their own country, so they

 exported it to ours.

 "I have this day asked the ambassadors of five of the

 nations who keep embassies in Havana to send their

 military attache's to inspect this warhead. Here is

 a sworn document these officers executed that states

 the shell is as I have represented, a biological

 warhead."...He fluttered the paper, then held it up

 so the camera could zoom in.

 "The revelation here today of the United States's

 perfidy will undoubtedly provoke a reaction from the

 bandits to our north. Fidel always knew that the day

 might come when we would have to defend ourselves again from

 American aggression, so he installed a- battery

 of intercontinental ballistic missiles in Cuba

 for defensive purposes. These mis-. siles are

 operational and ready now to defend our sacred soil.

 Rest assured, my fellow Cubans, that we shall

 resist American aggression, that we shall

 fight to defend Cuba from those who would destroy her,

 and we shall make her great for the generations to come.

 "Thank you."

 As a speech to a Cuban audience accustomed

 to Fidel's six-hour harangues full of baroque

 phrases and soaring rhetoric, Alejo's little

 effort seemed underdone. He had actually made a

 conscious effort not to sound like Fidel. Watching the

 tape of the speech, he thought it went well.

 "Air it immediatelyea"...he said to the television

 producer, and walked back toward Fidel's old

 office.

 Alba and Delgado were there to meet him. They had

 known that Vargas intended to blame RauTs murder

 on Hector Sedano when he made this speech:

 indeed, they had already signed eyewitness affidavits

 swearing that they saw Hector shoot the man. That

 Alejo Vargas had the cojones to make the big

 lie stick meant a lot to these men who had

 spent their lives in an absolute dictatorship

 and knew that the man at the top had to be completely

 ruthless, without scruple of any kind, to survive.

 Fidel had been willing to crush his enemies any

 way he could; Vargas seemed to have the same talent,

 so perhaps he had a chance.

 The two military men shook Vargas's hand.

 "Tell us,

 Senor Presidente,

 what the Americans will do."

 "I have thrown the ballistic missiles in their

 faceea"...Vargas said. "I expect the Americans

 to go to the United Nations Security Council and

 ask for sanctions, perhaps a world trade embargo

 sanctioned by the UN. Now that the missiles have been

 discussed in public, the American government cannot

 ignore them, even if they want to."

 "Do you anticipate an attack?"

 "I do not, but we must take precautions. The

 missiles sit hi hardened silos impervious

 to air attack, or nearly so. It is possible that

 the Americans might attempt commando raids. I

 suggest you move troops to the sites, have them dig in

 around the silos."

 "And if the Americans attack and we cannot

 repulse them?"

 "This dog will bite. Fire the missiles."

 Alba grinned. His hatred of the Yanquis was common

 knowledge. "If the Americans do attack, when would you

 expect it?"

 "They will try diplomacy first. Only if

 that fails will they try military action."

 "Still, I would like to move the troops immediately."

 "By all meansea"...sd Alejo Vargas. "We will have

 television cameras film your men digging in to defend

 Cuba."

 "And the missiles? Are you going to film them?"

 "Of course. Cuba is a sovereign nation. The

 world has changed since the 1962 missile

 crisis. We have an absolute right to defend

 ourselves, and if necessary we shall. Any noise the

 Americans make will rally the Cuban people to us."

 Even as Vargas talked to his military men, the

 president of the United States's advisers were

 arguing for diplomatic initiatives before military

 options were weighed. "We must go to the United Nations

 first," the secretary of state stated forcefully.

 "What if the UN turns us down"..."...the president

 asked in reply.

 "We need political coverea"...the secretary shot

 back. "A significant percentage of

 Americans think Castro was a hero, a champion

 of the downtrodden, and we unfairly bullied him. The

 fact that he was an absolute dictator with zero

 regard for human rights means very little to the political

 left. Then there is the Casualty

 problemthe-American people won't tolerate seeing their

 soldiers killed while fighting for oil or

 corporate profits in foreign wars."

 "What bullshitff"...snapped Tater Totten.

 "I'm really sick of listening to Vietnam draft

 evaders tell us that Americans don't have the guts

 to fight for civilization."

 "I am

 not

 a draft evaderea"...shouted the secretary of state,

 her face red, her cheeks quivering. "I demand an

 immediate apology!"

 "Shut up, both of youea"...the president growled.

 "I apologizeea"...Tater Totten muttered, almost

 as if he meant it.

 The president had done some hard thinking since

 Tater Totten demanded that the presence of the Cuban

 missiles be addressed before any other matter with

 Cuba was put on the table. Six missiles with

 biological warheads aimed at the southeastern

 United StatesCuban missiles today were every bit

 as serious as when John F. Kennedy had to deal with

 them, he decided. If the administration asked for the

 blessing of the UN Security Council and didn't

 get it, he would be worse off than if he

 ordered military action immediately.

 The lab and processing facility worried him too.

 If Cuba could manufacture polio virus and

 put it in an aerosol so-

 lution, any plane that could fly across the Straits of

 Florida could attack the United States.

 By the time Alejo Vargas's broadcast was

 translated and replayed for the National Security

 Council, the president strongly believed that the

 American people would react angrily to the presence of

 missiles in Cuba. The outrage of the congressmen

 and senators who heard the speech convinced him.

 He called on Tater Totten again. "I'm

 getting the cold sweats just thinking about this crap.

 Tell me what we are going to do to make sure the

 Cubans don't shoot those missiles."

 "Sir, the best insurance is to go after the missiles,

 the lab, and the processing facility as soon as

 humanly possible, before the Cubans get troops

 in there to defend them."

 "When is humanly possible?"

 "Tomorrow night would be the earliest possible date. Every

 day we wait allows us to assemble more forces.

 Conversely, every day we wait the risk increases:

 Tomorrow Vargas can move more troops to guard

 those silos; he could get wind of what's coming and

 threaten to release polio virus by airplane,

 by missile, or have somebody with an aerosol bomb

 in a suitcase turn it loose God-knows where."

 "So why not go tomorrow night?"

 "We must put enough people and firepower in there to get the

 job done. It's a nice calculation."

 "Do you want me to make that decision?"

 "I recommend that you leave the decision to the

 military professional who is there, Rear

 Admiral Grafton. He's spent thirty years

 in uniform training for this moment, for this decision."

 The president grunted.

 The Chairman continued, "By tonight we will have two

 Aegis cruisers in the Florida Straits between

 Cuba and Florida. Jake Grafton ordered

 them there on his own initiative. He's a good man.

 The cruisers have the capability of shooting down

 ballistic missiles coming out of Cuba."

 "Do the Cubans know that?"

 "Someone in Cuba mightthe information is in the public

 domainbut I doubt that Alejo Vargas knows much

 about U.s. naval capability."

 "You hope he doesn't, because if he does, they

 might launch before the cruisers get in

 range."

 Tater Totten nodded affirmatively.

 "This Grafton, I've heard that he goes off

 half-cocked, doesn't obey orders, isn't a

 team player."

 "I don't know who said that, but Jake 'Grafton

 is the best we have. War is his profession. Alejo

 Vargas is an amateur playing at warthere is a

 vast difference."

 "Grafton has enemies,"

 "Who doesn't?"

 "What if the Cubans launch their missiles and the

 cruisers miss?"

 "Then the shit will really be in the fan, Mr.

 President. Americans will die, a lot of them.

 You'll have to decide. how much of Cuba ybu want

 to wipe off the face of the earth."

 "We're going to hold a news conference to reply

 to Vargas this afternoon."

 "I wouldn't mention biological weapons, if I

 were youea"...Tater Totten advised. "Let your

 audience assume the Cuban missiles still have

 nuclear warheads. Germs scare people more than bombs,

 perhaps because they are invisible. And we've lived with the

 bomb for fifty years."

 The president pursed his lips thoughtfully.

 Autrey James, Petty Officer Third

 Class, USN, always watched the ocean from his station

 in the door of the helicopter. It was a point of

 pride with him. He once spotted two fishermen

 whose boat had sunk off Long Island and was given a

 medal and had his name and photograph in the

 newspapers, but the part of that adventure that he

 remembered best was his grandmother's reaction when she

 read of his exploits. "You

 save

 people, Autrey, what a marvel-

 ous professionff"...Grandmom's comment somehow said it all

 for Autrey James; whenever his helo was

 airborne, he watched the ocean. Maybe someday

 he would save another life.

 So that was the reason Autrey James spotted the

 tiny object on the surface of the immense ocean and

 called it out to the pilots on the ICS.

 "Yo, Mr. P., looks like a man in the water

 at ten o'clock, two milesea"...Autrey James said.

 "Are you kidding me, James? You got eyes that

 good?"

 "Looks like a man to me, sir, but I could be

 wrong."

 "Well, we'll motor over that way just to find out

 if you are."

 The helicopter was an SH-60But Seahawk from

 USS

 Hue City,

 one of the two Aegis-class cruisers that Jake

 Grafton had sent charging northwest. The cruisers

 were doing just that right now, running abreast of each other a

 mile apart, making 32 knots, twenty-five

 miles east of the helicopter's position.

 Hue City's

 commanding officer had launched his helo so the crew could

 get some flight time and he could find out what was over

 the horizon, beyond the range of his surface-search

 radar.

 "Dog my dingies, James, danged if that ain't

 a survivor. Is he alive, do you think?"

 "His head's still up, sir. Give me a hover and

 I'll put the basket in the water."

 The basket was just that, a basket on the end of a winch

 cable. All the survivor had to do was crawl in,

 then James could winch the basket up to the chopper and

 help the survivor out.

 Unfortunately, with the basket in the water just in

 front of him, the survivor made no

 attempt to get in.

 "He ain't gettin" in, Mr. P.ea"...Autrey

 James told the pilot. He was leaning out the door

 of the helicopter so that he could see the survivor and the

 basket.

 "I don't think so. Looks like his head is out of the

 water. Dead men don't float like that."

 "You wanna jump in and help?"

 "On my wayea"...sd Autrey James. The pilot

 lowered the chopper to just a few feet above the water and

 James jumped into the sea.

 One look at the survivor's face told him the

 man was near death, too weak to help himself. With some

 pushing and pulling, James got the survivor into the

 basket. The other enlisted man in the chopper winched

 him up, then dropped the basket for James.

 When James had his helmet on again, he informed the

 pilot, "We'd better head back quick, Mr.

 P. This guy is in real bad shape. His eyes

 don't focus."

 "Try to give him some water."

 "I'll try, but we need to get him to a doc."

 Autrey James leaned over the survivor, who was

 deathly cold, and shouted to make himself heard above the

 loud background noise, "Hey, man,

 you're one lucky dude. You're gonna be okay.

 Just hang on for a few more minutes."

 "Blanketsea"...James said to the other crewman.

 Both of them wrapped the survivor in wool

 blankets.

 "Gracias,"

 said Ocho Sedano, anil tried to smile. Then

 exhaustion overcame him and he passed out

 The carrier and her battle group got under way at

 dawn.

 Kearsarge

 stayed in Guantanamo Bay and began loading the

 marines that had been guarding warehouse number nine.

 The last of the warheads were going aboard the cargo ship

 this afternoon, then it would sail. When it left,

 Kearsarge

 would also get underway with the marines, all nineteen

 hundred of them.

 The battle group steamed south from Guantanamo

 bay. For about an hour the southern hills of Cuba

 were visible from the decks of the ships, but they soon

 dropped over the horizon and all that could be seen in

 any direction was

 the eternal ocean, always changing, always the same. It

 was then that the carrier launched an E-2

 Hawkeye, which carried its radar up to 20,000

 feet. Everything the Hawkeye's early warning radar

 saw was datalinked to the carrier's computers, where

 specialists kept track of the tactical

 picture.

 Toad Tarkington took Jake aside and showed him

 the latest message from the National Security

 Council. He was directed to destroy the viruses

 in the laboratory in the University of Havana's

 science building, find and destroy the

 warhead-manufacturing facility, and to remove the

 warheads from the six missiles and destroy them in their

 silos.

 As Jake read the message, Toad said, "They

 don't want much, do they?"

 "Where in hell is the warhead-manufacturing

 facility"..."...Jake groused. He went to find

 William Henry Chance to ask him that question. He

 found Chance in the wardroom drinking coffee with

 Tommy Carmellini. They were the only two people there

 at ten in the morning.

 "Do you have any idea where we might find this

 factory for making biological warheads?"

 "Sit down, Admiral. Let me buy you a cup

 of navy coffee."

 Jake sat. Carmellini went for the coffee while

 Jake repeated the question.

 "It has to.be someplace between the science building

 and the missile silosea"...Chance said. "No one in their

 right mind would want to haul that stuff very far. A

 traffic accident of some type ..."

 Jake Grafton's brows knitted. He tapped

 on the table. "If you were going to haul polio

 viruses around, what kind of truck would you use?"

 Chance shrugged. "I don't knowea"...he said.

 "I've been thinking about it for five hours now, and

 I've got an idea. We'll run it though the

 recon computers and see what pops ou"...He got up

 from his chair.

 "Mind sharing your epiphany?"

 "I'd haul the stuff in milk trucks. Clean,

 sterile, and sealed. A dairy should have a sterile

 environment and the equipment to mix the viruses with some

 sort of a base, then load them into warheads."

 Jake turned and marched from the room just as

 Carmellini approached with the extra coffee cup and

 saucer.

 "He didn't stay long, did he?"

 "Noea"...Chance grunted, and sipped at the coffee

 Carmellini had brought from the urn in the

 corner of the room.

 "Think Grafton's big enough for this

 job"..."...Carmellini asked..

 "Yeah. I think he is."

 Three dairies met Jake's specificationsthey

 were located between Havana and the first of the missile

 silos, which were arranged in a line beginning forty

 miles east of Havana and going east from there. The

 silos were about fifteen miles apart.

 "Cows. See if they have cows around them."

 "When?"

 "The latest satellite photography. Whenever that

 was."

 Two of the dairies no longer had cattle in the

 adjacent fields. The one that did was scratched off

 the list. The other two were examined minutely by the

 carrier's intelligence center experts and the National

 Security Agency photo interpreters in

 Maryland, who conferred back and forth via encrypted

 satellite telephones. The experts decided that

 neither dairy coold be eliminated as a possible

 site for the warhead factory.

 "We'll do 'em bothea"...Jake Grafton said.

 By three that afternoon the staff and air wing planners had

 come up with a draft plan. Actually the

 task, destruction of eight targets, was a

 relatively simple military one. Tomahawk

 missiles could take out

 the

 lab and the dairies without muss or fuss. They could

 probably also destroy the missiles in their

 silos, as the silos were hardened in a simpler age,

 when the threat was unguided air-dropped bombs.

 With their ability to power-dive straight down on a

 hardened target and penetrate ten or twelve feet

 of reinforced concrete, Tomahawks were the weapon of

 choice.

 And they were out of the question. The president absolutely

 refused to take the chance that polio viruses might

 escape from a bombed lab or silo and kill tens

 of thousands of Cubans in their beds. An event like that

 would be political dynamite, with repercussions beyond

 calculation. No, the politicians said,

 American troops were going to have to lay their lives

 on the line to prevent just such an occurrence. And,

 Jake Grafton well knew, some of them would

 die. . He had already put the wheels in motion.

 Preliminary messages had been sent to other

 commands, asking them for the assistance Jake thought he would

 require. A thousand details remained

 to be worked out by the various staffs involved, but the

 machine was in motion. The primary task Jake still

 had to address was setting the day and hour for the attack.

 As he stood looking at the charts of Cuba that

 covered the wall in the planning space, Jake and his

 staff wrestled with the timing question. Captain Gil

 Pascal, the chief of staff, argued that the operation

 should be delayed until such time as U-2's could

 fly a photo recon mission and get the very latest

 enemy troop positions.

 "Vargas made a speech todayea"...Jake replied.

 The speech and a translation had played several times

 on television. Jake had even stopped once

 to watch it.

 "Hue City

 and

 Guilford Courthouse

 are racing for the Florida Straitsea"...Toad

 Tarkington argued. "This battle group is underway.

 The Cubans may find out about these ship movements and

 put two and two together and get their wind up. They

 may be able to put twenty-four hours of delay

 to better use than we can."

 "That's the nub of it, isn't it"..."...Jake mused, and

 stood looking at the charts, trying

 to imagine how it would be.

 Sure, things would go wrong. People were going to have the wrong

 frequencies, go to the wrong places, everything

 STEPHEN COONTS

 that could go wrong would. Still, the missions were simple.

 The real issue, Jake concluded, was the

 follow-up. What were you going to do if the troops

 ran into more trouble than they could handle? How would you

 extract them? How would you destroy the target?

 Jake called the Pentagon on the satellite

 telephone. He was patched through via land line

 to General Totten at the White House.

 After the usual greetings, Jake said, "Sir,

 two points. First, I would like to address the

 proposal to delay the operation until Patriot

 SAM batteries can be moved into southern

 Florida. If we pop a Cuban missile

 over southern Florida the cloud of viruses may

 drift over to Miami or Tampa. I don't

 think we gain anything by waiting for Patriot

 batteries."

 "We've about reached the same conclusion here, but there

 has been vigorous debate. What is your

 second point?"

 "In my view, the key to getting this done

 is our willingness to do whatever is required

 to accomplish the mission."

 "The president is listening, Admiral. Explain

 yourself."

 "As I see it, General, our choice is-to either

 wait until we are convinced we can pull it off,

 or go now before the Cubans have a chance to garrison these

 sites with troops. The lab in Havana presents

 problems that the other sites do not. We will have

 to tackle the lab after the missiles are destroyed."

 "Okay."

 "If the troops assaulting the silos run into more

 Cubans than they can handle, we must either add more

 forces or extract our men. If we elect

 to extract our people, we still have the problem of the missile

 in the silo and we will have handed the Cubans a

 victory in a fight we cannot afford to lose."

 "What do you propose?"

 "We won't be able to go back later with more people. We

 get one bite of the apple, sir. I propose that

 you au-

 thorize me to use whatever force is required

 to accomplish the mission, short of nuclear

 weapons."

 Jake Grafton heard the president

 loudly say, "I'm not giving him or anybody

 else the authority to risk a catastrophic

 release of toxins. No."

 "We'll call you backea"...General Totten said, and

 hung up.

 Mercedes went to stay with Dona Maria Vieuda

 de Sedano, to cook for her and clean and do whatever

 needed to be done. She had stayed with her mother-in-law

 in the past, after her husband, Jorge,

 diedfortunately the two women genuinely liked each

 other.

 She and Dona Maria ate lunch on the little porch

 of the bungalow so they could enjoy the breeze blowing in

 from the sea. It was strong today, whipping the palm

 fronds and rippling the sugarcane. Little puffy

 clouds threw severe shadows that raced over the

 ground.

 Dona Maria had gone back inside for a nap and

 Mercedes was sewing a blouse together when a limo

 drove up and Maximo got out. He came up the

 short walk, paused at the steps, and looked at

 her. "I thought I would find you hereea"...he said.

 "Mima's

 sleeping."

 "I came to see you."

 She nodded, continued working on the blouse. He stayed

 on the dirt and scraggly grass, walked around so the

 porch railing was between them.

 "Vargas made a speech this morning. It was on

 television."

 "Hmmea"...she said. Dona Maria did not have a

 television, and Maximo knew that.

 "He is the president now."

 "I have heard."

 "Did he really kill Fidel"..."caret

 "No."

 Her thread broke. She got out the spool of thread

 and rethreaded the needle.

 "Would you tell me if he had?"

 "What did you come for, Maximo?"

 "I need your help."

 She knotted the thread and began a new seam.

 "You don't think much of me, do you?"

 "I don't think of you at all."

 He leaned on the porch railing, crossing his arms.

 "Where did Fidel hide the gold?"

 "I didn't know he had anyea"...she said, not looking

 up from her work. "He didn't even have gold in his

 teeth."

 "The gold pesos the government called hi

 after the revolutionthat gold."

 "I have no ideaea"...she said.

 "I think you do. I think Fidel told you."

 "Think what you like."

 "He wouldn't let the secret die with him."

 "Maximo, look at me. If I had a

 pocketful of gold, would I be sitting here on the

 porch of a tiny, ninety-five-year-old bungalow

 with a thatched roof beside the road to Varadero, sewing

 myself a shirt?"

 "I don't think you have itI think you know where it

 is."

 She snorted and went back to the needle and the seam.

 "You don't want the gold for yourself, I know. But

 I need it. Not all of it, just a little. I must get

 out of Cuba."

 A strand of hair fell across her face. She

 brushed it back.

 "We could leave together, Mercedes, if we had some of

 that gold. You could go anywhere on earth you wanted,

 live the rest of your life without worry, without fear,

 without need. Think of it! A new life, a new

 beginning. How much of this heat and dirt and hopeless

 poverty do you want, anyway?"

 "Forget the gold, Maximo. If there is

 any, it is not for you."

 He backed away from the railing, stood in the sun with

 the sea wind playing at his hair. "Think about

 itea"...he said. "Vargas is no fool; he wants the

 gold too. One of these days he will send Santana

 around to see you. Think about what you are going to say

 to him when he comes."

 He walked to the waiting limo. The driver turned

 the car in the road and headed back toward Havana.

 Toad Tarkington was the only person in the room with

 Jake as they waited for the chairman of the joint

 chiefs to call from the White House.

 "What do you want from them, Admiral?"

 "I want the authority to do whatever I have to do

 to destroy those virusesea"...Jake Grafton

 explained. "Once the shooting starts,

 we have to win."

 "What if the president won't give you that

 authority?"

 "He has a right to say that. We'll go do our best,

 and if we can't cut it without using Tomahawks or

 laser-guided weapons, then we'll call him up and

 say so."

 "What is the problem here"..."...Toad demanded. "If

 there is a toxin release he won't be the

 guy responsible. Fidel Castro and Alejo

 Vargas are the guilty parties. This is

 their

 country."

 Jake shook his head. "If there is a toxin

 release in America, the president must be able

 to prove that he did everything humanly possible

 to prevent it If there is a release in Cuba...

 well, he will need to show people around the world that he did

 what he could to prevent it while still eliminating the

 threat to the U.s. Elimination of the threat is the key

 here, and I hope they understand that in Washington." He

 smacked the wall with his hand. "Dammit, we only

 get one shot at those viruses."

 "I wonder if anyone in Washington is thinking about

 the Bay of Pigsea"...Toad mused. "That turned

 into a debacle because Kennedy wasn't willing to commit

 enough resources."

 "I've

 been thinking about itea"...Jake Grafton said.

 When the telephone rang, General Totten was on

 the

 line. "Admiral, we shall word it like this: 'allyour

 mission is to eliminate the threat to the United

 States. In completing your mission you are

 instructed to do everything within your power to minimize the

 possibility of a toxin release in Cuba. You

 may use any forces and weapons in your command

 except nuclear or CBW weapons, and you may

 request assistance from any command in the U.s. armed

 forces." ""Yes, sir."

 "I'll have that on the wire as soon as

 possible.""...allyes,

 sir. I

 want to thank you and the president. We'll do our

 best."

 "I know you will, sailor. When are you going?""...Tomorrow

 night, sir. In view of all the factors

 involved, that is my choice."

 Over Cuba the next morning the cloud cover was

 typical for that time of year: as the sun rose the

 prevailing westerly winds spawned cumulus

 clouds over the warming land. The longer the clouds

 remained over land, the higher they grew. In the area

 east of Havana where the Americans believed the

 missile silos and processing lab were located the

 cloud cover averaged forty or fifty percent by ten

 in the morning, enough to inhibit satellite and U-2

 photography of the area. Infrared photography

 was not affected by the clouds, nor were the

 synthetic-aperture radar studies done by air force

 E-3 Sentry AWACS aircraft.

 Oblivious to the intense scrutiny that the island was now

 getting disf the Americans, General Alba conferred

 that morning with Alejo Vargas, then ordered troops

 and tanks moved into position around the silos. There were

 actually eight silos, but only six held

 operational missiles. The other two missiles had

 been used as sources of disspare parts through the years.

 Had Alba and Vargas realized what was coming, they

 might have elected to dissipate the American

 military effort by garrisoning all eight silos: as

 it was, they didn't think of it.

 The sun had been up just two hours when two

 C-130 Hercules landed at the naval air station

 at Key West, Florida. On the civilian

 side of the field people stood and watched as the Hercs

 parked on the other side of the runway. Soon navy

 personnel began unloading the transports. The

 civilian kibitzers did not know what the pallets

 and canisters con-

 STEPHEN COONTS

  tained, and after a while they went on about their

 business. Four armed marines in combat gear took

 up locations where they could guard the

 transports.

 Among other things, the transports had delivered

 belted

 20-mm ammunition for miniguns, Hellfire

 missiles, flares, and 2.75-inch rockets. They

 also delivered tools and spare parts to work on Marine

 Corps AH-1Will SuperCobras.

 Two hours after the Hercs landed, the first two

 SuperCobras settled onto the military mat.

 By noon sixteen of the mottled green helicopters

 were parked hi the sun.

 The two-man crews didn't leave the base, but

 went into an old, decrepit navy hangar nearby

 for briefings.

 Two more C-130's wearing marine markings landed an

 hour or so later. They parked near the first two. As

 navy trucks began refueling the planes, marines

 disembarked and spread their gear on the ramp. They

 lounged around, a few walked a safe distance away

 and lit cigarettes, and after awhile a navy truck

 brought hot food.

 Troops, tanks, and trucks were moving in Cuba

 by noon, blocking roads and creating traffic jams.

 By midafternoon the E-3 Sentry crews had alerted

 the National Security Agency, which passed

 the information on to USS

 United States.

 Jake Grafton went to the ship's intelligence

 center to see what the computers could tell him.

 After listening to the briester, Jake Grafton

 muttered, "Damn."

 He went over the data, then asked, "How much

 combat power are they moving, and when will it be in

 place?"

 In New York City the U.s. ambassador

 to the United Nations paid a call on the Cuban

 ambassador. After exchanging civilities, the

 American said bluntly, "My government has

 asked me to inform you that if the Cuban government

 releases biological toxins of any kind in the

 United States, for any reason, the American

 government will massively retaliate."

 ""Massively retaliate""..."...The Cuban's

 eyes widened. "What does that mean?"

 "Sir, I was instructed to deliver the message, not

 to interpret it. Here is the statement in writing."...The

 American handed over a sheet of paper and took her

 leave.

 Aboard USS

 Hue City,

 now underway precisely halfway between Cuba and

 Key West at ten knots, Ocho Sedano awoke

 in midafternoon from a deep sleep. He found that he was

 in a hospital bed on a small ward, with two

 intravenous solutions dripping into his veins. His

 vision was blurred, he could not focus his eyes.

 The doctor on the ward noticed that he was awake and

 came over to check him. In a few minutes an

 American sailor who spoke Spanish came

 to interpret.

 "Your eyes are sore from the salt of the water. They

 will get better. Can you tell us your name, senor?"

 "Juan Sedanoea"...he whispered, because he could not

 talk above a whisper. "They call me El

 Ocho."

 "And where are you from?"

 "Cuba."

 "How long were you in the sea?"

 "Two days and nights, I think. I am not sure.

 Maybe more than that."

 The doctor put a solution into Ocho's eyes

 while the questions and answers were flying back and forth.

 After blinking mightily Ocho thought he could see a

 little better. The doctor was examining Ocho's

 fingertips and the calluses on his hands. Now

 he held up Ocho's hand and peeled off a

 callus. Then he smiled. "You were very lucky."

 The translator interpreted.

 "Where am I"..."...Ocho asked.

 "Aboard

 Hue City,

 a United States Navy ship. You were rescued

 by a helicopter. The man who saw you in the water

 wants to shake your hand when you awaken. He saved

 your life. May I call him?"

 "I would like to meet him."

 STEPHEN COONTS

 It felt very comfortable lying there, looking at the fuzzy

 beds and blurred people bustling about, checking him over, so

 different from

 Angel del Mar.

 Or floating on the sea.

 Maybe he was dead. He examined that possibility

 but concluded it was not so. This was not a bit like the heaven

 he envisioned, and he was hungry. He told the

 interpreter of his hunger, and the man went to talk to the

 doctor, who had wandered off.

 They brought food about the same time that Autrey

 James came breezing in with one of his pals, who

 had a camera. James was a happy

 fellow with a wide smilethe white teeth in a dark

 face were the only details that Ocho could see.

 James got down beside the bed and posed while the man

 with the camera took many pictures. Another man with a

 camera came, some kind of television camera, and

 he and James shook hands again. Several men in

 khaki stood behind the camera watching.

 The interpreter relayed the questions from Autrey

 James and the television cameraman. When did you

 leave Cuba, What was the name of the boat, How many

 people were there?

 "Eighty-four people."

 "Eighty four"..."...asked the interpreter in disbelief.

 "Eighty-fourea"...whispered Ocho Sedano.

 "What happened to the boat?"

 "It sank."- .

 "And the people?"

 "They went into the water... sharks."

 "Sharks?"

 "Some people were swept over the side during a storm our

 first night at sea. Diego Coca shot the

 captain, some people died of thirst... Diego jumped

 into the sea. The children died of exhaustion and hunger,

 I thinkit is really impossible to say. There was no

 food or water, only rain to drink. When

 the boat sank those who were left were eaten by sharks.

 If they didn't drown. I hope Dora drowned.

 "The old fisherman and I were spared.... Did you

 find

 him? The old fisherman? Did you see him in the

 ocean"..."...He clawed at Autrey James, who

 drew back out of reach.

 "Noea"...the interpreter said. "You were the only one."

 They went away men, all of them, left him to eat

 the food and stare at the ceiling and think about the fact

 that he was alive and all the others were dead.

 The others were dead. He was alive. What did that

 mean?

 Was God crazy?

 Why me?

 He was thinking about that when someone came to put solution

 in his eyes again. This time the solution made him cry.

 He sobbed for a minute or two, then his body gave

 out and he slept.

 "Why did you not put the gold in a bank vault?"

 Mercedes had asked this question of Fidel several years

 ago, when he first told her of the gold pesos. As

 she sat on her mother-in-law's small porch

 completing her blouse, she remembered the

 question, and Fidel's answer:

 "If we kept the gold in a bank, the international

 bankers would have learned of it eventually, would have

 demanded that we post it as security for a loan. Then

 a hurricane would come or the bottom would drop out

 of the sugar market one year, and the gold would be gone."

 "But the gold does not help Cuba. Why own it?"

 "The gold is oursea"...he said obstinately. "When it

 is gone it is gone for all Cubans forever."

 "But you hid it, so it is gone now."

 "Oh, no. You and I know where it is. As long as it

 is hidden, it belongs to Cuba."

 She couldn't shake himhe had the peasant's love

 of the secret hoard, the instinctual drive to bury a

 can of money or hide it in a mattress, just in

 case. No matter how bad things got in the house,

 the money was always there,

 STEPHEN COONTS

 hidden, an asset that could be tapped to stave off

 starvation or disaster.

 He said as much when he admitted, "In the middle

 of the night, when I am alone and the world is heavy on

 my shoulders, I remember we still have the gold."

 Fidel and Che Guevara hid it together, for Cuba.

 Guevara was killed in Bolivia and

 apparently took the secret to his grave.

 Fidel didn't want tohe told the one person

 on this earth he trusted.

 She wished she didn't know this thing. As she worked on

 the last seam of the blouse, she thought about this great

 secret, about what she should do.

 Mercedes Sedano had confided in no one, had

 written nothing down. With Fidel dead the gold was

 only one heartbeat away from being lost forever. She

 must do something, but what?

 Fidel had been a knot of contradictions. She

 had argued with himchallenged the macho man hmfand he

 had admitted some of his failures, which was a rare

 moment for him. Not all of his errors, but some.

 "I am the only communist in Cubaea"...he said,

 laughing. "Becoming a communist was a mistakeof

 course I can never say that hi public. We had

 to declare our independence from the American financiers and

 corporations. In the fullness of time it turned out that

 the Russian horse couldn't run the race, which was

 unfortunate, but that didn't mean we were wrong in the

 first place."...He shrugged.

 He had the Latin's ability to accept life's

 vicissitudes as they came with courage and grace.

 "The best thing about communism was the

 dictatorship. The economic twaddle meant

 nothing. Someone had to show the Cuban people they could stand

 on their own feet, that they didn't need to sell their

 souls to the Americans or the Catholic

 Church."...He smiled again, made a gesture toward

 heaven. "The truth is we were too poor to afford the

 Church or the Americans."

 If Santana or Vargas tortured her, she would

 tell them

 about the gold. To suffer horribly and die for a

 secret that you thought illogical was worse than

 stupidit would be a sin.

 Did he ever wonder what she would do if she found

 herself in this situation?

 She finished the last seam, shook out the blouse, and

 held it up so she could view it.

 Had Fidel really trusted her to make the decision

 that was best for Cuba, or did he just think that she would

 keep her mouth shut?

 For Maximo Sedano the question was simple and stark:

 Where was the gold?

 Rumors had circulated for forty years, and not a

 flake had ever surfaced. Several men swore they

 had helped melt the coins into ingots in a smelter

 in the basement of the Ministry of Finance, but

 they never knew what happened to the ingots. Alejo

 Vargas had been running the secret police for

 twenty years and the Ministry of Interior for the last

 ten and probably hunting for the gold for at least

 nineteen, and he hadn't found it. At least

 Maximo didn't believe he had. In forty years

 no loose ends had unraveled... so there must have

 been no loose ends.

 The conclusion Maximo drew from these facts was that

 only a very few peopleFidel, perhaps his brother

 Raul, maybe Chehad known the secret in the first

 place. Today the secret might be known by a few people

 who had been close to them. In any event, there were

 no elderly workmen about who liked to run their mouth when

 they drank their rumVargas would have found anyone like that

 years ago.

 So the gold wasn't made into statues, poured like

 concrete into a floor or foundation, made into bricks

 and used to construct a state building, or

 transported to some flyspecked hovel and buried

 under the floor. No. If the gold had been hidden

 this way, someone involved in the labor would have talked

 during the last forty years.

 If there were secret records waiting to be discovered

 or

 STEPHEN COONTS

 letters in bank vaults, Maximo would never discover

 them. All he had were his wits.

 With Fidel dead and Alejo Vargas ascendant,

 Maximo was using his wits now, applying them as never

 before.

 In search of inspiration, he walked the streets of

 Havana to the Museum of the Revolution.

 Like so many revolutionaries who swashbuckled through the

 pages of human history, after his victory

 Fidel found it expedient to enshrine himself as the

 savior of the nation so that he might remain at the

 helm permanently. Of course, to properly do the

 job it was also necessary to build a monument to the venality

 and depravity of his enemies, because great heroes need

 worthy opponents. Amazingly, all this good,

 evil, and greatness fit neatly under one roof: the

 presidential palace that had been the residence of

 Fulgencio Batista.

 Maximo walked quickly through the exhibits that

 detailed Batista's corruptionwhat he sought would

 not be there.

 He quickly found what he was looking for. Fidel the

 savior,

 "El Lider Maxima"

 portraits, busts, memorabilia, candid and

 posed photographs, heroic paintingsall of this was

 enough to turn the stomach of anyone who had actually known

 the man, Maximo thought. Alas, Fidel had been

 very flawed clay: megalomaniacal, filled with a

 sense of his own magnificent destiny, boorish,

 opinionated, pigheaded, insufferable, prejudiced,

 loquacious to a fault, and, all too often, just

 plain wrong. What a tragedy that this

 self-annointed messiah was stranded in this third world

 backwater and never had the opportunity to save the

 species, which he could have done if only God had

 sent him to Moscow or Washington.

 Maximo tried to stifle his disgust and concentrate upon

 the displays before him.

 Fidel and Che Guevara, Camilo

 Cienfuegos, the other immortals ... The

 university, the Moncada Barracks, the trial,

 prison, handwritten letters, exile, guerrilla

 days ...

 He carefully looked at everything, then wandered on.

 He came to a room devoted to the fall of

 Havana; Fidel riding into the city on a tank,

 ecstatic children. Then Fidel the ruler; Fidel the

 baseball player; Fidel and Che fishing

 in the Gulf Stream; Fidel with Hemingway,

 Richard Nixon, Khrushchev, Kosygin, the

 famous and the infamous, always togged out in those abysmal

 green fatigues; dozens of shots of Fidel with his

 mouth open in front of crowds ... God, how the

 man Could talk to a captive audience!

 Maximo was in the next room looking at photos

 of Fidel eating rice and beans with schoolchildren when the

 incongruity of the photo of Fidel and Che fishing

 struck him. Odd, that.

 He went back to it. The two were on some kind of

 fishing boat, with fighting chairs and big rods,

 fishing for marlin probably.

 Wait a minute ... The marina where Maximo

 kept his boat... When he first moved it there the

 harbormaster had once told him that Fidel used

 to leave from that marina to fish.

 Now he remembered. Yes. The old man said

 Fidel and Che fished often, every few days, went out

 by themselves, often spent the night at anchor in the

 harbor. After a year or so they tired of it, the old

 man said wi/lly, never came back. The boat

 belonged to the Cuban Navyseized from an

 Americanand was eventually converted to a gunboat.

 He could remember the old man talking,

 could see the wind playing with his white hair as he

 stood on the dock in the sun talking about his hero,

 Fidel, about that moment one day long ago when their

 lives came close together.

 The harbormaster had been dead for years. The new

 man was far too young to remember anything.

 What if the gold were on the floor-of Havana

 Harbor?

 Each night Fidel and Che could have lowered hundreds

 of pounds of it over the side of the boat free from

 observation. Given enough nights ...

 Over time the gold could have gradually disappeared

 from the Finance Ministry. If no one but Fidel and

 Che handled the gold, there was no one to talk.

 Maximo could see logistical problems with this

 possibility, of course, but not insurmountable ones.

 He left the museum deep in thought.

 "The air force's AW AC* reports that the

 Cuban military is moving toward the silo

 sites, Admiral."

 The briefer was a commander, the senior Air

 Intelligence officer on the carrier

 battle-group's staff.

 "The troops are being moved from barracks in the

 Havana area. We can see tanks and

 trucks, which presumably contain supplies and

 troops. The columns are moving slowly, eight

 to ten miles per hour. Cuban troops have already

 arrived at missile site number one. Just arriving

 on sites two and three. We estimate that there will

 be no Cuban military presence on sites four

 though six until tomorrow morning after dawn."

 "Why so slow"..."...Jake Grafton asked.

 "These are old tanks, Soviet T-54's.

 We think they see no reason to risk breakdowns

 by driving faster. The consensus seems to be that the

 Cubans aren't on full alert."

 "Okay"

 Jake Grafton said, because there was nothing else

 to say. The god of battles was dealing the cards.

 The briefer continued, pointing out bridges and

 crossroad choke points, and Jake tried

 to concentrate, which was difficult. When the briefer

 finished, Jake dismissed his staff and sat staring at

 the map on the bulkhead.

 The plan was good: the weather would be typical, the

 forces he had should be adequate, they knew their

 jobs ... but if the Cubans fired those missiles

 at the United States, two Aegis cruisers were

 all he had to prevent the missiles from

 reaching their targets.

 Should this whole operation be delayed until

 antimissile batteries could be moved to south

 Florida?

 Every hour of delay meant more American troops would

 die taking those missile sites. Yet if the

 missiles success-

 fully delivered their warheads, the results would be

 catastrophic.

 He looked again at the planat the timing, at the

 units assigned.

 Biological weapons. Poliomyelitis.

 He could always use more people, of course. One of the

 primary goals of warfightingsome people argued, the

 only

 goalwas to direct overwhelming force at the point

 where the enemy was most vulnerable. Or as Bedford

 Forrest put it, "Get there firstest with the mostest."

 Already the Cubans were digging in around silos one and

 two. What if the forces he had committed couldn't

 crack those nuts?

 The urge to wait for a bigger hammer had Jake

 Grafton in its grip now. He felt like David

 with his slingshot. Maybe he needed more Aegis

 cruisers, some Patriot missile

 batteries, more cruise missiles, troops,

 Ospreys, airplanes.

 If one of those missiles got through ...

 He found a handkerchief in his hip pocket and

 mopped his face.

 His stomach tried to turn over.

 He hadn't felt like this since Vietnam. Way

 back in those happy days he had been responsible

 only for his bombardier's life and his own miserable

 existence. All things considered, that load had been

 relatively light.

 This load ...

 Well, Jake Grafton, Uncle Sugar's

 been paying you good money all these years while you

 've been getting fat and sassy on the long

 grass. It's payback time.

 In midafternoon Toad Tarkington went to the communication

 spaces to call his wife, Rita Moravia, on

 one of the ship-to-ship voice circuits. He had

 done this a time or two before and the chief petty officer

 was accommodating when the circuits were not in use for

 official business. This afternoon he asked the chief for

 an encrypted circuit but they were all busythe chief

 handed him a clear-voice handset.

 Toad called

 Kearsarge

 and left a message for his wife. Ten minutes

 later she called him back.

 "Hey, Toad-man."

 "Hey, Hot Woman."

 Tonight, he knew, she would be flying a V-22

 Osprey, hauling troops to missile silo two.

 "Just wanted to hear your voiceea"...Toad said, as

 matterof-factly as he could. He could envision this

 conversation coming over radios in ships throughout the

 battle group and in Cuban monitoring stations.

 He had no intention of giving away secrets nor

 of entertaining kibitzers.

 Rita was equally circumspect. "Got a letter from

 Tyler. He wrote it with Na-Na's help, of

 course."

 "How's Ty-Guy doing?"

 "He has a girlfriend, the Goldman girl across the

 street."

 "That's my boyea"...Toad said. "A lover already. A

 chip off the old brick."

 Aboard

 Kearsarge

 Rita was holding the handset in a death grip. She

 loved life: her son, her husband, her

 job, the people she worked withevery jot and comma of her

 life. Oh, of course there were days when the stress and

 problems threatened to overwhelm her ability to cope,

 but somehow she managed. In the wee hours of the night

 when she paused to evaluate, she knew that she

 wouldn't change a thing. Not one single thing.

 Now she realized that Toad hadn't spoken in

 several seconds.

 "I wouldn't change a thingea"...Rita said.

 "I was thinking the same thingea"...he said.

 "From day one."

 "I remember the first day I saw you. Wow."

 "When we were at Whidbey, I thought you hated me."

 "And I thought you didn't like me."

 "Thank God you finally screwed up the courage

 to kiss me."

 "Wish I could nowea"...he shot back.

 Tears ran down her cheeks. She wanted to tell

 him how

 much he had meant all these years, how grateful she

 was that they shared life, and nothing came out. She put

 her hand over the mouthpiece so he wouldn't hear her

 cry.

 "Next time we're together, better not wear

 lipstickea"...he said.

 "I never wear lipstickea"...she managed, her voice

 barely under control.

 "It's a good thing, tooea"...he said, his voice

 cracking.

 The silence grew and grew.

 "Well, I gotta goea"...Toad finally said. "They

 wanna use this circuit to trade movies or

 something."

 "Yeah."

 "Vaya con Dios,

 baby."

 "You too, Toad-man."

 Toad found Jake Grafton hi Combat huddled

 with Gil Pascal, the chief of staff. He listened

 to the conversation for a moment, then realized that the admiral

 was trying to assure himself that he had adequate forces

 to win. Tonight!

 After a bit Jake turned toward Toad.

 "Let's have your two centsea"...he said.

 "If we need anything, sir, it's a bigger

 reserve. We have three V-22's with twenty-four

 marines each to go wherever they are needed. A while

 ago the CO of the carrier's marine del asked if

 he and some of his people could get in on the fun.

 He called

 Kearsarge

 and found there is one extra Osprey. It's being

 used as a backup to the first wave, but if it isn't

 needed, then it'll be an extra."

 Gil Pascal frowned. "The carrier's marines

 haven't been briefedea"...he pointed out.

 Jake glanced at Toad and raised one eyebrow.

 "Sir, I was hoping you would let me go with

 themea"...Tarkington replied cheerfully. "I'm as

 briefed as it's possible to get."...Actually, as

 Ops, Tarkington wrote the plan.

 "You've been planning to spring this on me all day,

 haven't you?"

 "I could take a satellite phone, give you a

 worm's-eye

 STEPHEN COONTS

 view of the action, let you know if there is really a

 problem."

 "Did the marine det CO approach you with this

 marvelous idea, or did you approach him?"

 Toad turned his eyes to the ceiling. "An officer

 I know well used to say, 'allyou know me." his

 "I think I know that guy tooea"...Jake said, and

 chuckled. "Oh, all right, damn ityou can

 go. Gil and I will try to hold the fort without you. If

 the backup Osprey isn't needed, you'll be part

 of the cavalry. Tell the grunts to saddle up."

 The Spanish-speaking sailor who acted as an

 interpreter shook Ocho Sedano awake.

 "Ochoea"...he said. "Ocho, a question has arisen. We

 wish to know if you are related to Hector Sedano."

 Ocho opened his eyes and focused on the interpreter,

 who appeared reasonably clear. His eyes were

 better, much better. He rolled over, men sat

 up in bed. He was still in sick bay aboard

 Hue City.

 "Welcome back to the land of the livingea"...sd the

 American sailor.

 "It is good to be aliveea"...Ocho whispered.

 "Did you ever give up hope?"

 "I suppose. I thought I would die, and was waiting

 for it. But I always wanted to live."

 The sailor grinned. This was the first American he

 had ever gotten to know, and he had a good grin, Ocho

 thought.

 "The officers want to knowea"...the sailor said, "if you

 are related to Hector Sedano."

 "He is my brother."

 "I will tell them."

 Ocho nodded, then rubbed his head and stretched. He was

 hungry and thirsty. A glass of water was sitting

 on a rolling table beside the bed, so he drained it.

 "May I have some food?"

 "I will bring some."

 Ocho looked the sailor in the eyes. "I want

 to go back to Cuba. I should never have left."

 "I will tell themea"...the sailor said, and left him

 there.

 William Henry Chance and Tommy Carmellini

 argued with Toad about how many marines wearing CBW

 suits should go into the warhead factory with them. "Just

 Tommy and Iea"...Chance said. "The more people that are in there

 the greater the chance of an accident."

 "How are you going to get your gear in there?"

 "An armload at a time. It will take a little

 longer, but with only two guys going in and out, this

 whole evolution will be safer."

 "What if the Cuban Army shows up while you're

 working?"

 "The marines can defend us until the place goes

 up."

 They were in a ready room under the flight deck

 dressing in a corner under the television set, which was

 showing a continuous briefing by the Air

 Intelligence types. Radio frequencies,

 threat envelopes, timing, call signs, weather,

 everything was on the tube.

 Carmellini was paying close attention to the

 briefers, Chance was arguing with Toad. "And I'm not

 taking a rifle or hand grenades or rations or

 any of that combat crap."

 "A pistol, then."

 "Got my own. Don't want two."

 "Why are you being so obstinate, Mr. Chance?"

 Chance sat down heavily in one of the ready-room

 chairs.

 "I guess I've got a bad feeling about this

 commando stuffea"...he said. "Charging in decked out like

 Captain America caret with rifle in hand scares

 me silly. Everybody and his brother will start

 shooting, and with cultures above-ground in vulnerable

 containers ..."...He shivered. "If we sneak in in

 civilian clothes ... well, that's what I'm

 used to. This military stuff frightens me."

 "You're going to look funny walking into a dairy in

 civilian clothes with flares on your shoulders if

 there are Cuban troops sitting around the place

 guarding the cows."

 "You're right, I know."...Chance shrugged.

 "Gonna be an adventureea"...Tommy Carmellini

 tossed in.

 "You guys are big boysea"...Toad Tarkington said.

 "I'm not going to nursemaid you. But this isn't a

 gamea lot of lives are at stake. If you

 screw this up and we gotta go back in there later and

 fix it, you guys better be dead. Don't bother

 coming back."

 Toad said it matter-of-factly, as if he were

 discussing a payroll deduction. Chance suddenly

 felt small.

 "Okayea"...he said. "Two other guys in CBW

 suits. But I'm in charge. If I go down,

 Tommy is."

 "Fineea"...sd Toad Tarkington, and went to find an

 encrypted telephone.

 Terror wasn't going to be enough to keep Alejo

 Vargas in office. He knew that. He could put the

 fear of God in the little sons of bitches and keep it

 there, but to sleep nights in Fidel's house he was

 going to have to govern the country, to give a little here, a

 little there, and so on. He was prepared to do thathe had

 watched Fidel manipulate these people all of his

 adult life.

 Today he sat in his office at the Ministry

 of the Interiorhe had had no time to move to the

 presidential palacereceiving the members of the

 Council of State, of which he was the president.

 "Senor Ferrara, it is a pleasure to see you

 again."

 Ferrara was short, fat, and wheezed when he moved.

 He was a member of the'Council of State and the

 minister of electric power. He dropped into a

 chair across the desk from Vargas and wiped his forehead

 with a handkerchief.

 "Good day, Senor President."

 Colonel Santana handed Vargas Ferrara's

 affidavit. Vargas merely glanced at the

 signature, then laid it in his top right-hand drawer

 with the others. He didn't read it because he knew

 exactly what the affidavit containedan emo-

 tional eyewitness account of the murder of Ratil

 Castro by Hector Sedano. Vargas and

 Santana had drafted the document this morning.

 Before each member of the Council of State met with

 Vargas, Santana presented them with an

 affidavit for signature. Most intuitively

 understood that signatures were mandatory, and those that

 didn't had the facts of life explained

 to them. So far, all had signed.

 "I appreciate your support in this matter,

 Ferrara."

 "I will be frank with you, Vargas. That document

 means nothing."...He gestured toward the desk drawer.

 "You may be able to crack the whip in Havana, but the

 people do not support you. They want Hector Sedano

 in the presidential palace."

 "They will find a place in their heart for me."

 "Fidel Castro lasted for over forty years because he

 had the support of the people. The members of the National

 Assembly, the Council of State, the ministers,

 could not oppose him because they had no base of

 support. The Department of State Security

 didn't control the population Fidel did."

 "He did not tolerate opposition, nor will I."

 Ferrara said nothing.

 What was it about Ferrara? Something was in the files, but

 he hadn't looked at that file in years, and now it

 was gone. "Was it your daughter?"

 Ferrara's face became a mask.

 "Your daughter... something about your daughter..."

 He stared into Ferrara's eyes.

 "Help me a little."

 Even Ferrara's wheezing had stopped.

 "Maybe it will come to me."...Alejo Vargas leaned

 back in his chair. "Or maybe I will forget

 completely."

 Santana came in just then, handed him a sheet of

 paper, and said, "The ambassador to the United

 Nations received this note from the American UN

 ambassador."

 "Thank you for stopping by, Senor Ferrara. I

 appreciate

 you executing this affidavit. I look forward to working

 with you in the future. Good day."...Ferrara went.

 Vargas read the note. "Any other American

 reaction to my speech or their president's?"

 "Yes,

 sir.

 As we expected, the American pundits generally

 support their president, but there are many who feel

 the United States has goaded Cuba

 into military adventurism with their political

 shunning of Castro. This feeling is widespread in

 Europe. Around the world there are many who feel that

 Cuba has endured much oppression at America's

 hands."

 Vargas nodded. All the world roots for the underdog.

 'The American carrier battle group that

 was in Guantanamo is now south of the Isle of

 Pines. They have only a few planes aloft."

 "And General Alba? Is he getting troops

 into position around the silos?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "Make sure the air force is on full alert, the

 army, the navy, the antiaircraft missile

 batteries, everyone. If the Americans come we will

 bloody their nose, perhaps even launch a missile.

 One missile will teach them a bitter lesson. They

 have never seen anything like that virus: they will have no

 stomach for it. The error of their ways is about

 to become quite apparent."

 "You do not believe this 'massive retaliation"

 threat?"

 "It is laughableea"...he scoffed. "No American

 president will ever order the use of weapons of mass

 destruction, even in retaliation. The Americans

 stopped making war years agothey use force to send

 messages to "bad" governments, never to kill

 the civilians who support that government. Guilt

 is the new American ethic: they would be horrified

 at the murder of the hungry."...He waved his hand

 dismissively, then became deadly serious:

 "The Yanquis may, however, screw up

 the courage to use force against our armed forces. If

 so, the Cuban people will rally to the flag and we shall

 heroically defend our

 national honor. And use the missiles to show them the

 error of their ways."

 "Cubans are patriotsea"...Santana agreed.

 "After the Bay of Pigs, Castro was president for

 life."

 "A man with the right enemies can do anythingea"...Vargas

 declared, and smiled.

 While Alejo Vargas and Colonel Santana

 were conferring in Havana, the Americans opened

 fire. Three Spruanceclass destroyers that had

 sailed from Mayport soon after sunrise were now

 fifty miles off the Florida coast headed south,

 well away from the coastal shipping lanes. They

 began launching Tomahawk cruise missiles from

 the vertical launchers buried in the deck in front

 of their bridges. Although each ship carried

 forty-eight Tomahawks in their vertical launch

 tubes, they only launched twenty missiles

 each.

 On the bridge of USS

 Comte de Grasse

 the captain watched with binoculars as his

 missiles leveled out from then- launch climb and

 disappeared into the sea haze. One of the missiles

 dove into the ocean, making a tiny splash.

 "There went three million bucksea"...he muttered.

 After the launch was complete, he called down

 to Combat on the squawk box. "How many

 successfully launched?"

 "Nineteen, sir."

 "And the other ships?"

 "Twenty and eighteen, Captain."

 "What is the time of flight?"

 "An hour and twenty minutes, sir."

 "Very well. Report the launch."

 Not bad, the captain thought, and gave orders

 to secure from General Quarters.

 God help the Cubans, he thought, then turned to the

 navigator to discuss the voyage to the Florida

 Straits, where

 Comte de Grasse

 and her sister ships would join the Aegis cruisers

 already there.

 Aboard USS

 United States,

 Jake Grafton seated himself in the admiral's

 raised chair in Combat and surveyed the

 computer displays. Gil Pascal, the chief of

 staff, was also there along with the ship's air wing commander,

 the Combat Control Center officer and the members of his

 staff.

 Jake leaned over and whispered to Pascal. "See

 if you can find me some aspirin, please."

 "Yes, sir."

 He was looking over the plan and watching the display of

 commercial traffic going in and out of Jose Marti

 International Airport in"...Havana when a chief

 petty officer handed him the encrypted satellite

 phone.

 "Admiral Grafton, sir."

 "This is the president, Admiral. How goes the

 war?"

 "We already have Tomahawks in the air, sir, but the

 Cubans won't know what's coming for an hour or

 so."

 "We're sweating the program here in Washingtonea"...the

 president continued. "Our feet are getting

 frosty. If we chicken out, could the airborne

 Tomahawks be intentionally crashed?"

 Jake Grafton took a deep breath and exhaled

 before he answered. "Yes, sir. That is possible."

 "Let's hold on to that option. I'm

 sitting here with General Totten and the senior

 leadership of the Congress. I want your opinion on

 this question: Should we postpone this show for a day or two?

 Or indefinitely? What are your thoughts?"

 Jake Grafton licked his lips. In his mind's

 eye he could see ballistic missiles rising from

 their silos on pillars of fire, and sailors, just

 like the ones manning the computers here in Combat aboard

 United States,

 sitting in front of radar scopes and computer

 keyboards aboard the Aegis cruisers.

 "Mr. President, I have also been thinking about the

 risks. The only thing I can promise is that we will

 do our best.

 No one can guarantee results. Still, in my

 opinion, considering just the military risks, we should

 go now, without delay."

 "Thank you, Admiralea"...the president said.

 "Jake, this is Tater Totten."

 "Good evening, sir."

 "Just wanted to say good luckea"...the general said, then the

 connection broke.

 Jake Grafton handed the handset to the chief.

 "Here is your aspirin, Admiralea"...Gil

 Pascal said, holding out water and three

 white pills.

 Four EA-6But Prowlers sat on the ramp at

 NAS Key West. Their crews stood lounging

 around the aircraft. They had flown in just an hour

 ago, and now the fuel trucks were pulling away. The

 crews had huddled with the crew of the two C-130

 Hercs parked on the ramp, studying charts and checking

 frequencies. Now it was time to man up.

 As the marines in full conibat gear filed aboard

 the Hercs, the crews of the Prowlers strapped in and

 started engines. Two of the Prowlers carried three

 electronic jamming pods on external stations and

 two HARM missiles. HARM stood for

 high-speed anti-radiation missile. The other two

 Prowlers carried four HARMS and one jamming pod

 on the center-line station.

 With the engines running, the pilots closed the

 Prowlers" canopies and taxied behind the Hercs

 toward the duty runway. No one said anything on the

 radio.

 The flight deck of USS

 United States

 came alive. A small army of people in brightly

 colored shuts swarmed around the airplanes that

 packed the deck as the flight crews

 manned up and started engines.

 Light from the setting sun came in at a low angle

 like a bright spotlight, illuminating the towering

 cumulus which dotted the surface of the sea, and made

 everyone facing west squint or shade their eyes.

 Soon the plane guard rescue helicopter

 engaged its rotors and lifted off the deck as the first

 airplanes began taxiing toward the bow and waist

 catapults.

  Aboard USS

 Hue City

 and USS

 Guilford Courthouse,

 the two Aegis cruisers on station in the Florida

 Straits, the afternoon had been a busy one.

 Twenty-five miles of ocean separated the two

 ships, but they were linked together electronically as

 tightly as if they were wired together at a pier.

  As the Hercs and EA-6BS taxied at Key

 West, and

 United States

 prepared to launch her air wing, the weapons officers

 aboard the cruisers checked the ships' inertia!

 systems one more time, compared the GPS locations yet

 again, then gave the fire order.

  The first of the Tomahawk missiles rose

 vertically from their launchers on fountains of fire.

 The wings of the missiles popped out, then the

 missiles began tilting to the south as they accelerated

 away into the evening sky.

  The first missiles from each ship were still in sight when

 the second ones game roaring from the launchers. Each

 ship launched sixteen missiles, then turned

 to stay in the racetrack pattern they had been using

 to hold station.

  Sitting in the Combat Control Center aboard

 United States,

 Jake Grafton felt the thump as the first bow

 catapult fired. A second later he felt the

 number-three cat on the waist slam a plane

 into the air. His eyes went to the monitor, which was showing

 a video feed from a camera mounted high in the ship's

 island superstructure. Each catapult stroke was

 felt throughout the ship as the planes were thrown into the

 sky, one by one.

  A half dozen planes were still on deck awaiting

 their turn on the catapults when the destroyers in the

 carrier's screen began launching Tomahawk

 cruise missiles.

  The television cameraman in the ship's

 island swung his camera to catch the fireworks. The

 picture captured the attention of the people in Combat,

 who paused to watch the.

 missiles roar from their launchers on fountains of

 reddish yellow fire, almost too brilliant

 to look at.

 When the last of the missiles was gone, the camera

 returned to the launching planes.

 Gil Pascal said to Jake, "It'll go well,

 Admiral."...Jake nodded and took another sip of

 water.

 The sun seemed to be taking its good ol' time going

 down, Lieutenant Commander Marcus Gillispie

 thought.

 He was at the controls of an EA-6But Prowler

 that had just launched from

 United States.

 He had worked his way around towering buildups reaching

 up to 10,000 feet and was now above them, looking at

 the evening sky. The last of the red sunlight played

 on the tops of the clouds, but the canyons between them were

 purple and gray shading to black. As Gillispie

 climbed he delayed the sun's apparent setting for a

 few more minutes. Soon the last of the red and gold

 faded from the cloud tops below.

 A very high cirrus layer stayed yellow and red for the

 longest time as Marcus circled the carrier at

 30,000 feet. Two FirstA-18 Hornets

 came swimming up from the deepening gloom to join on

 him.

 "You guys all set"..."...Marcus asked his three

 crewmen.

 His crewmen counted off in order.

 The Prowler was the electronic-warfare version of the

 old A-6 Intruder airframe. While the

 Prowler bore a superficial resemblance to its

 older brother, the electronic suite in the

 aircraft could not have been more different: the Prowler was

 designed to fight the electronic battle in today's

 skies, not drop bombs.

 The airframe was also longer than the old A-6,

 lengthened to accommodate four people and a massive array

 of computerized cockpit displays. The people sat in

 ejection seats, two in the front, two in the

 back. Only one of the crewmen was a pilot, who

 sat in the left front seat: the other three were

 electronic-warfare specialists. And they were not

 CUBA

 all men. One of the guys in back tonight was a

 woman, a lieutenant (junior grade) on her

 first cruise.

 Marcus looked at his watch, then keyed his mike.

 He waited while his encryption gear timed in with the

 ship's gear, then said, "Strike, this is

 Nighthawk One. I have my chicks and am ready

 to leave orbit. Request permission to strangle the

 parrot."

 "Roger, Nighthawk One. Call feet dry."

 "Wilco."

 Marcus Gillispie rolled the Prowler wings

 level heading northwest for the city of Havana. Then

 he engaged the autopilot. When he was satisfied

 that the autopilot was going to keep the plane straight

 and level, he flashed his exterior lights, then

 turned them off, leaving only a set of tiny formation

 lights illuminated on the sides of Ihe

 aircraft above the wing root. Finally he reached

 down and turned his radar transponder, his parrot,

 off. The Prowler and the two Hornets on her wing were

 no longer radiating on any electromagnetic

 frequency.

 The pilot looked back past his wingtips at the

 Hornets. One was on each wing now. Like the

 Prowler, their missile racks were loaded

 with HARM'S. The Hornets also carried two

 Sidewinders, heat-seeking air-to-air

 missiles, one on each wingtip, just in case.

 Already the displays in the Prowler were alive with

 information. The electronic countermeasures officer,

 ECMO, in the seat beside the pilot, was really the

 tactical commander of the plane. His gear, and that of the

 two electronic-warfare officers in the back

 cockpit, provided a complete display of the

 tactical electronic picture. The information the

 computers used was derived from sensors embedded all

 over the aircraft in its skin, and from the sensors of

 one of the HARM missiles, which was already on line.

 The ECMO with Marcus Gillispie was Commander

 Schuyler Coleridge, the squadron commanding

 officer, who wound up in the right seat of Prowlers because

 his eyes

 were not quite 20/20 uncorrected when he graduated from

 the Naval Academy. The truth of it was, he

 thought he had the better job. Pilots, he liked

 to say, just drove the bus ECMO'S fought the war.

 He had one to fight tonight. The Cubans were going

 to get really riled when those Tomahawks started

 popping, he thought, and then the fireworks would start.

 Just now Coleridge was busy running his

 equipment through its built-in tests. Everything was

 working, as usual. That routine fact was the greatest

 advance of the technological age, in Coleridge's

 opinion. In his younger days he had had a bellyful

 of fancy equipment that couldn't be maintained.

 He was sweating just now, even though the cockpit

 temperature was positively balmy. And he

 knew his fellow crewmen were sweatingthis was the first time

 in combat for all of them.

 It will go all right,

 he thought. After the tension he had suffered through this afternoon

 and evening, Schuyler Coleridge actually welcomed

 the catapult shot.

 Let's do it and get it over with.

 All four of the squadron's EA-6BS were

 aloft just now, and the other three also had pairs of

 Hornets attached.

 As Coleridge looked at the search radars

 sweeping the Cuban skies, he wondered if there were

 going to be MiGs.

 "Okay, peopleea"...Coleridge told his crew, "let's

 go to work."

 A search radar on the southern coast of Cuba

 drew his attention. The signal was being received by the

 HARM sensors, which routed the electronic

 signal through the plane's computer and displayed it on

 the tactical screen.

 Coleridge checked his watch. "Any second

 nowea"...he muttered to his crewmen.

 The Cubans had their search radars wired

 into sector facilities, which performed the functions of

 air traffic control (Atc) for civilian

 aircraft and early warning and ground

 control interception (Gci) for military

 aircraft. ATC radars in developed countries

 rarely searched for non-transponderequipped

 targets, but due to the dual usage of these radars,

 such sweeps were routine. Consequently one of the

 controllers in the Havana sector was the first

 to notice a cloud of skin-paint targets closing

 on the Cuban coast from the south.

 His call to the supervisor was echoed by a call from a

 controller looking at targets headed south toward the

 north coast of the island.

 The shift supervisor stood frozen, staring over the

 operator's shoulder at the radar screen. He had

 wondered if something like this-might not happen after

 Alejo Vargas's television speech, but when he

 asked the site manager about the possibility of

 Cuba being attacked by the United

 States, the man had laughed. "The world has changed

 since the Bay of Pigs, Pedro. You are

 safehave courage." The response humiliated

 the shift supervisor.

 Now the supervisor picked up his telephone,

 called the manager in his office. "You'd better come

 see thisea"...he said with an edge on his voice. "Come

 quickly."

 The manager was looking over the supervisor's

 shoulder when the first Tomahawk crashed into the antenna

 of the main search radar on the southern coast. In

 seconds three more radars went off the air.

 The stunned men turned their attention to the radars on

 the north coast, and were just in time to watch the blip of a

 Tomahawk from

 Hue City

 fly right down the throat of the radar and knock it out.

 The supervisor turned to the manager and calmly

 said, "Apparently the war you didn't believe would

 happen is happening now."

 The stunned manager watched in horror as screen

 after screen went blank.

 "The Americans rarely leave things half-done,

 or so I've heardea"...the supervisor continued. "I

 would bet fifty pesos that this building is

 also a target of a cruise missile. If you

 gentlemen will excuse me, I think I will go home

 for the evening."

 With that, he turned and walked briskly from the room.

 "Everyone outea"...the facilities manager shouted.

 "Outside, everyone outside."

 The men at the consoles needed no urging. They

 bolted for the doors.

 The shift supervisor was outside, walking quickly

 for the bus stop, when he heard a Tomahawk. He

 fell to the ground and covered his head with his hands as the

 missile dove into the roof of the sector control

 building and its 750pound warhead exploded with a

 thundering boom. Within " the next fifteen seconds,

 two more missiles crashed into the building.

 After waiting another minute just to be sure, the

 supervisor stood and surveyed the damage.

 Clouds of tiny dust particles formed an

 artificial fog, one illuminated by flame licking

 at the gutted building. The stench of explosives

 residue and smoke lay heavy in the night air.

 One hundred fifty missiles swept across

 central Cuba, some coming from the north, some from the

 south. The targeting had been done quickly, but the

 information that made it possible had been mined

 from databases painstakingly constructed from

 satellite and aircraft photo and electronic

 reconnaissance over a period of years.

 Four dozen Tomahawks were targeted against every known

 radar dish within a hundred miles of the missile

 silossearch, air traffic, antiaircraft

 missile, and artillery radarsall of them, two

 missiles for each antenna.

 Another fifty Tomahawks attacked every Cuban

 Air Force base along the five-hundred-mile

 length of the island. Some of the Tomahawks carried

 bomblets instead of highexplosive warheads: these

 swept across aircraft ramps, scattering bomblets

 over the parked MiGs, damaging them and setting some

 on fire. Other cruise missiles dove headfirst

 into the Cuban Air Force's hangars, weapons

 storage facil-

 ities, and fuel farms. Fixed antiakcraft

 surface-to-air missile (Sam) sites

 received two or three missiles each.

 Alejo Vargas learned of the American attack

 when the telephone he was using went dead in his hand.

 He frowned, jiggled the hook, then replaced the

 handset on its base. Only then did the dull

 boom of the explosion in the central

 Havana telephone exchange reach him. A

 Tomahawk had dived through the roof.

 More explosions followed in quick succession as two more

 cruise missiles hurled themselves into the telephone

 exchange. One of the problems the Americans faced

 with the employment of cruise missiles was assessing

 damage after the attack. The solution was to fire

 multiple missiles at the same target to ensure

 an acceptable level of damage.

 The thought that the presidential palace might be a

 target never occurred to Alejo Vargas. He went

 to the nearest window and stood listening to the roar of

 Tomahawks overflying the city on their way to radar

 and antiakcraft gun and missile installations

 sited around Jos6 Marti International

 Airport. The five-hundred-knot missiles were

 invisible in the darkness, but they weren't quiet.

 The missiles had passed when someone near the harbor

 opened up with an antiaircraft gun firing

 tracers. The bursts of tracers went up like

 fireworks and randomly probed the darkness as the

 hammering reports echoed over the city.

 Colonel Santana came irito the room and

 joined Vargas at the window. "The telephone

 system in the city is out."

 "It's probably out all over Cubaea"...Vargas

 replied.

 "They are attacking much sooner than you thought they

 would."

 "No matter. The results will be the same. Get

 a car to take us to Radio Havana. I will make

 an address to the nation."

 "The Americans may use missiles on the

 radio stations or power plants."

 "It is possible, but I doubt it. Get the car."

 Santana went after a car as Vargas thought about what

 he would say to fan the fires of patriotism in every

 Cuban heart.

 The two C-130's Hercs and four EA-6But

 Prowlers that had left Key West were level at

 ten thousand feet when they crossed the northern

 shoreline of Cuba. The C-130's actually were

 flying with their wingtip lights on so that the Prowlers

 could easily stay in formation with them. Inside the

 Hercs the pilots were using global positioning

 system (Gps) units to navigate to the missile

 silo sites.

 The Prowler crews watched their computer displays and

 listened to their emission-detection gear, waiting for the

 Cubans to turn on a radar, any

 radar. The night was deathly quiet. The

 Tomahawks had done their work well.

 As the Hercs crossed over the first of the dairy

 farms, two men leaped from each plane. Forty

 seconds later two more went as they crossed over the

 second possible lab site. Then the Hercs made

 a gentle, lazy 270-degree turn to get lined

 up for the run-in to the missile silos.

 Jose Marti Airport and the surface-to-air

 missile sites that surrounded it were only thirty

 miles west. Not a peep from them. If the

 Tomahawks missed any of the mobile radars, the

 operators had not yet screwed up the courage

 to turn them on, for which the Hercules crews were

 thankful. The Prowler crews, however, with HARM

 missiles ready on the rails, were feeling a bit

 disappointed. After all the sweating, there should be more

 action.

 Aboard USS

 United States,

 the datalink from the E-3 Sentry AW ACS

 over Key West revealed the aerial fire drill

 going on over Havana as commercial flights tried

 to find their way into Jose Marti Airport without the

 aid of air traffic controllers with radar.

 Some of the flights announced they were diverting, and

 headed for the United States or Jamaica or the

 Cayman Islands. The others queued up and landed

 VFRIEND as Jake Grafton watched the computer

 displays with his fingers crossed. While he didn't

 want to be responsible for the crash of a civilian

 airliner, he couldn't

 delay this operation until there was a temporary lull

 in civilian air activity.

 As the first Here approached silo one, two men

 leaped from the open rear door. Seconds later,

 two more leaped from the second transport.

 The jumpers fell away from the airplanes like

 stones.

 Over silo two, marines leaped in pairs from each

 of the Hercs, and so on, until the transports had

 overflown and dropped recon teams at all six

 silo sites. Then they turned northward, toward the

 sea.

 The Prowlers followed faithfully.

 At that moment a SAM control radar near silo

 two came on the air, probing for a target.

 The Prowlers with the Hercs picked up the signal, of

 course, and two of them dropped their wings to turn

 back toward the threat.

 Forty miles south of silo two, Schuyler

 Coleridge also picked up the SAM radar, an

 old Soviet Fansong. As he slaved the HARM

 to the signal, his pilot, Marcus Gillispie,

 turned the plane ten degrees to ppint at the

 offending radar. Although the new missiles could be

 fired at very large angles, a quick turn by the

 launching aircraft shortened the missile's flight

 time by a few seconds.

 "Fireea"...Coleridge ordered, and Gillispie

 punched off the HARM, which shot forward off the rail in

 a blaze of fire.

 Coleridge keyed the radio. "Fox Threeea"...he

 said, letting everyone on the freq know that a beam

 rider was in the air.

 The HARM zeroed in on the side lobes of the

 radiating Fansong, whose operator was trying to lock

 up a Here for an SA-2 launch. The operator

 never realized the beam rider was in the air.

 The missile actually flew into the back of the

 antenna dish at almost Mach 3 and went several

 feet through it before the warhead exploded.

 The warhead contained thousands of 3/16th-inch

 tungsten-alloy cubes, which were three times denser

 than steel. The warhead blasted these cubes

 in all directions,

 obliterating the radar antenna and wave guides,

 shredding the trailer on which the antenna was mounted, and

 knocking out the equipment in the trailer. The flying

 cubes also killed the radar operator and severely

 wounded the three other occupants of the trailer.

 Another HARM launched by one of the FirstA-18

 Hornets on the Prowler's wing arrived six

 seconds later and impacted a tree just a few

 feet from the smoking, gutted trailer. Although the

 target radar had been off the air for six

 seconds, the missile's strap-down.ineitial

 allowed it to fly to the place where the computer memory

 believed the radar to be. The shrapnel from the warhead

 severed the tree and sprayed the shell of the trailer

 yet again, killing one of the already-wounded men.

 Major Carlos Corrado was sleeping off a

 hangover when the roar of a Tomahawk going over

 woke him. His eyes came open. He heard the

 staccato popping of bomblets from the Tomahawk, but

 had no idea what caused the sound. He thought the

 Tomahawk was a low-flying airplane.

 Groggy, aching, sick to his stomach, he was hugging

 a commode when another Tomahawk went over. In

 ten seconds the sound of the bomblets

 detonating on the planes parked on the flight line

 reached him though his alcoholic haze. Then one of the

 planes exploded with a rolling crash that shook the

 barracks.

 Corrado staggered outside and looked toward the

 flight line, where at least three planes were burning

 brightly.

 "Holy Mother!"

 Suddenly sober, Corrado went back inside and

 hastily donned his flight suit and boots.

 He was jogging toward the flight line when another

 Tomahawk went over scattering bomblets. The

 missile flew on, out of sight.

 As Corrado rounded the corner and the flight line

 came into view, the first cruise missile that had

 scattered bomb-

 lets dove into one of the hangars. There wasn't much

 of an explosion, but in seconds a hot fire was

 burning in the wooden structure.

 Corrado's personal fighter was parked between the

 burning hangar and another, which would probably be

 struck within seconds. The maintenance men had been

 working on the plane today, which was why it was not on its

 usual parking place at the head of the

 flight line.

 Running men helped Corrado push the plane

 away from the burning hangar, the wall of which was

 perilously close to collapse.

 "There is no fuel in the planeea"...someone shouted.

 "Get a truckea"...Corrado roared in reply.

 "And ammunition for the guns."

 The words were no more out of his mouth when the second

 missile crashed into the untouched hangar.

 Corrado seethed as linemen fueled his plane and

 serviced the guns. He was still on the phone in the

 dispersal shack talking to someone at the base armory

 when the truck carrying missiles braked to a

 squealing halt near the fighter, a silver

 MiGo-29 Fulcrum. Now he called the

 sector GCI site. The telephone rang and

 rang, but no one answered.

 Corrado stuck an unlit cigar in his mouth and

 stomped out to the plane. "Careful there, fools. Do

 it right. Do not embarrass me."

 He was watching the last of the 30-mm cannon

 shells going into the feed trays when one of the Havana

 colonels showed up.

 "You aren't going up in this thing, are you, Corrado?"

 "We are servicing it as a joke, dear

 Colonel. Every Saturday night when the

 Americans attack we put the cannon shells

 in, then take them out on Sunday morning."

 "Don't trifle with me, Major. I won't stand

 for it."

 "You pompous limp-dick! Go find a whore and

 let the real men fight."

 "Do not insult me, you sot. You stink of rum and

 vomit! Show some respect!"

 "Why should I? Your putrid face insults you every

 day."

 The colonel was so angry he spluttered. "I

 absolutely forbid you to fly this airplane without

 written orders from Havana."

 "Court-martial me tomorrow."

 "The Americans will destroy this airplane if you

 take it off the ground. To fly it is sabotage, a

 crime against the state. If you attempt to fly it,

 I will shoot you."...The colonel pulled out his pistol

 and showed Corrado the business end.

 Corrado ignored the gun. "You are a

 traitorea"...he roared, "who wants the Americans

 to win. Defeatist! Coward!"

 "I will shoot anyone who helps you defect in this

 airplaneea"...the colonel screamed. He

 pointed the pistol at the troops closing the servicing

 doors on the MiGo-29.

 "Counterrevolutionaries! Saboteurs!"

 Corrado used his fist on the colonel. The

 second punch, in the ear, did the trick. The man

 went to his knees, then onto his face. He

 didn't get up. One of the linemen picked up the

 pistol while the major massaged his knuckles.

 His hand hurt like hell but didn't seem to be

 broken.

 In truth Corrado wasn't much of a man. He

 abandoned a wife and child years ago and hadn't heard

 from them sincedidn't want to hear from them, because they would

 probably want money. What money he got his

 hands on he drank up; he even sold military

 equipment on the black market to pay for alcohol.

 His ability to fly a fighter plane was his sole

 skill, his only worthwhile accomplishment in

 thirty-six years of life. Now, unexpectedly,

 miraculously, he had a chance to use that skill

 to defend something larger than himself, to make his miserable

 life mean something and no strutting Havana rooster

 was going to cheat him out of it.

 Carlos Corrado gestured at the men. "Get the

 missiles loaded, you lazy bastardsea"...he

 shouted. "There's a war on."

 Richard Merriweather rode his parachute into a

 cornfield. At least, he thought it was cornlong,

 stiff stalks, head-

 high. He checked himself over; he was sore, but

 nothing broken. He stood and wrestled the chute

 toward him, then began scooping out a hole to bury

 it. He was finishing the job when he heard someone coming

 toward him.

 "Sergeant?"

 "Yo. You okay?"

 "Yeahea"...sd Kirb Handy.

 "Set up the GPS. Figure out where we are."

 With the parachute disposed of, Merriweather put on his

 night-vision goggles and took a careful look

 around. He was well out in the center of this field,

 near as he could tell.

 Merriweather sat down hi the dirt beside Handy, who

 was also wearing night-vision goggles. Handy punched

 buttons on the GPS.

 "This thing says we are a mile and a half

 southwest."

 "I'll buy that."

 "Missed the landing zone by a half mile."

 "Not bad at all."...Merriweather unslung his

 weapon and checked it over. Then he got to his

 feet.

 "The other two guys should be aroundea"...Handy muttered.

 .

 "They'd better be. We don't have much time."

 After a careful check of the GPS unit, the two men

 started walking northeast toward missile silo

 number six. They had gone only about a hundred

 meters when they came to the bank of a stream, a

 fairly wide stream.

 "What the hell is this"..."...Merriweather demanded; and

 got out his map. He and Handy huddled disbbh a tree

 studying the thing.

 "Holy shitea"...Handy said. "We're in the wrong

 place. We're at least four miles from the damned

 silo. Look here."...He pointed to the stream. "That

 has gotta be this thing in front of us."

 "So where's the other half of our team"..."...v

 "Gotta be over there, near the silo."

 "Let's get on the phone, give 'em the bad

 news.""...Oh, manea"...Handy moaned softly. "This

 ain't good."

 The four-man recon team for silo number two

 approached the barn via a large seasonal

 drainage ditch that ran more or less in the right

 direction. Fortunately the sides were relatively

 dry, though the ditch contained a few inches of water

 arid the bottom felt soft.

 They stopped moving when they were about fifty meters from

 the barn where they believed the silo to be. They were

 completely surrounded by Cuban Army troops.

 Two tanks stood outside the barn, trucks were

 parked in a nearby grove of trees, and troops were

 setting up aeacooking tent near the farmhouse's

 well. Other soldiers were down in the woods to the

 left, presumably digging latrines.

 "Must be a couple hundred of 'emea"...Asel

 Tyvek whispered to Janiail Ali, who was lying in

 the ditch beside him.

 "Sure as hell we can't stay hereea"...Ali

 whispered. "It's just a matter of time before somebody

 inspects this damn ditch with a flashlight."

 "The silo must be in that barn. Gotta be. If we

 crawl down this ditch, we should get within thirty

 yards of the thing. When the shit hits the fan, maybe

 we can get in there."

 "Let's spread out, man, fifty yards

 apartea"...Jamail Ali suggested. "If they find one

 of us, the others will have a chance."...Tyvek

 nodded and Ali whispered to the other two men, and

 pointed. They disappeared into the darkness.

 Tyvek keyed the mike on his helmet-mounted

 radio. In seconds he was talking to a controller

 aboard USS

 United States,

 telling her what he saw around the missile silo.

 'Twelve minutesea"...the female voice from

 United States

 said in his ear. "Twelve minutes."

 "Roger that, Battlestar. Twelve minutes."

 Nojman Tillman and the three men of his recon

 team were up TO THEIR knees in cow shit. They waded

 through the barn-

 yard and shoved the mooing dairy cattle out of the way

 so that they could get to the door of the barn, a possible

 biological weapons manufacturing site.

 "I thought there weren't any damn cows around

 hereea"...Tillman's number two muttered

 unpleasantly.

 Tillman took off his night-vision goggles, got

 his flashlight in hand, and took a firm grip on his

 rifle. He nodded at his number two, who

 carefully opened the barn door, which creaked on its

 rusty hinges anyway. Tillman launched

 himself through the. door opening. He slipped on something,

 fell, and slid for several feet on his chest. Much

 to his disgust, he could identify the substance he was

 lying in by its smell.

 Tillman stood, used the flashlight. He was standing

 in a conventional wooden barn that had not been mucked out

 in several weeks. Two cows turned and stared at the

 light. They looked nervous, as if they wanted

 to run, then began bawling. Cursing under his breath,

 Norman Tillman went on through the building,

 checking it out.

 Five minutes later he stepped outside and keyed

 his helmet radio. "Battlestar, this is Team

 One. Negative results. Nothing here but cows."

 "Roger, Team One. Stand by for a pickup."

 "Team One standing by. Ou."

 "I thought there weren't any cows at these sitesea"...one

 of the men said.

 "Yeah, but the cows didn't know they were supposed

 to be on vacation."

 "Maybe we landed at the wrong dairy farm."

 Tillman thought that over. Naw. That would be quite a

 screwup. More likely, the cows were being held in a

 nearby field when the recon photos were taken.

 "Sarge, somebody coming."

 The men dove facedown into the dirt-and-manure mix

 at their feet. The person coming turned out to be a

 farmhand in civilian clothes. The marines made him

 sit with his

 back against the barn wall where they could watch him, but

 they didn't tie his hands.

 At first the man was frightened. He got over it when

 one of the troops offered him a cigarette and lit it

 for him.

 Tillman crawled over a fence out of the muck and

 sat down under a tree to wait for the helicopter.

 One man watched the farmer while the other two posted

 themselves as sentinels.

 "There are several hundred troops and three or

 four tanks around silos one and two, Admiral,

 and at least two tanks and a squad of soldiers

 around three. Four and five appear to be unguarded.

 The recon team checking out silo six seems to have

 been dropped in the wrong placeonly two of the four

 have reported in; they estimate they are three

 miles from the silo. We haven't been able to contact

 the other two men."

 The briefer was an Air Intelligence officer who

 zapped the map with a laser flashlight pointer whenever

 he mentioned a silo.

 Jake Grafton wasn't paying much attention to the

 map, which he had memorized. He glanced at his

 watch, compared it with a clock on the bulkhead.

 "Lab site Alpha is a dairy farm. The

 recon team checking out Bravo reports

 jackpot, but not many troopsno more than a dozen.

 The Osprey will be there in less than ten minutes."

 The admiral got up from his chair, stretched, rubbed

 the back of his neck. So far it was going better than

 he expected it would. So far. Nobody shot down

 yet, only one recon team lost...

 "Is someone monitoring Cuban radio and

 television?"

 "Yes, sir. The National Security Agency.

 They will keep us advised."

 "Ummm."

 "What are we going to do about silo six,

 Admiral"..."...Gil Pascal asked.

 "Nothing we can do. The assault team will have to go into the

 landing zone blind."

 "The Cuban Army may be waiting."

 "They mightea"...Jake Grafton agreed.

 He put on his headset and switched between radio

 channels. By simply flipping switches he could

 monitor the aircraft tactical

 channels. In addition, with the new tactical com

 units, he and his staff could hear everything that was said

 on the helmet radios worn by marine officers and

 NCO'S.

 Since the signals were rebroadcast and

 ultimately picked up by the satellite, they were

 also being monitored in the war room of the White

 House. One of Jake's concerns was that the

 politicians or senior officers would be tempted

 to step into the middle of the operation. Although the Washington

 kibitzers could not communicate on the nets, they could

 quickly get in touch with someone who could, and an order was

 an order, even if ill-considered.

 He would worry about the politicians when the meddling

 started, he decided, not before.

 Doll Hanna was the recon team leader at dairy

 Bravo. He was sitting on a biological

 warhead assembly plant and he knew it. There

 wasn't a cow hi sight, two clean, modern

 dairy trucks sat near the entrance to the barn, and

 Hanna could hear air conditioners running. And the

 Cuban Army was guarding the place.

 From where he lay he could see two soldiers in

 cloth hats with rifles in their arms standing in front

 of the main entrance. He knew that there were men

 on the door in the rear of the building and in the old

 thatch-roofed farmhouse nearby.

 Doll Hanna touched the transmit button on his

 radio. "Willie, you take the two guys on the

 north side. Fred, you got the farmhouse.

 Goose, these two on the main entrance."

 All three men acknowledged.

 Doll was wearing his night-vision goggles so he could

 see Goose crawling behind the milk trucks, then

 under them, working his way toward the entrance. It was eerie

 watching Goose sneak along, knowing the guards

 couldn't see him.

 Taking out two men was a challenge. Either one could

 raise the alarm.

 Goose moved like he had all night.

 He didn't, Doll Hanna well knew. The

 Osprey was out there now circling, but it wouldn't come in

 until he called the area clear. Still, the plane

 only had so much fuel and the Cubans wouldn't stay

 quiet forever.

 In fact, a truckload of soldiers could come

 rolling in here any minute. The troops in the

 Osprey, when they arrived, would set up a

 perimeter to keep the Cuban military

 away.

 "Doll, this is Fred. I'm going to make some

 noise over here."

 "Okay."

 No doubt Goose and Willie heard that

 transmission. Noise would cause the guards to do

 something. If necessary, Goose and Willie could just

 shoot them down.

 Hanna heard the faint sound of a slamming door come

 from the direction of the farmhouse.

 The guards near the main door to the dairy got to their

 feet, looked at each other, then started toward the

 house. One stopped, told the other to stay, then went

 on with his weapon at the ready. As he went around the

 truck out of sight of the guard at the door, Goose

 got him with a knife.

 Then Goose waited.

 The man at the door called out to his friend.

 Nothing.

 The guard looked worried. He called again, got

 no answer, then walked forward twenty feet or so.

 He stopped, cocked his head, stood looking into the

 darkness and trying to hear over the hum of the big air

 conditioners.

 He was standing like that when Goose stepped out from

 behind the truck and threw a knife. The guard

 dropped his rifle and pitched forward on his face.

 Hanna got up, trotted for the door of the barn.

 He passed Goose, who was bending over the second

 guard checking to make sure he was dead. Carefully

 Doll eased the door open and looked inside.

 There were people inside, all right, behind transparent

 plastic curtains that formed biological seals.

 They were wearing full body-and-head CBW suits,

 so they looked like spacemen walking around in there between

 trays of cultures and rows of worktables.

 They had apparently heard nothing above the noise of the

 air-ventilation system, which was a loud, steady hum.

 Doll eased his head back. The people in there would have

 to wait until the experts arrived.

 Major Carlos Corrado walked onto the

 runway of the Cienfuegos Air Base. The

 runway lights were off and the night was fairly dark

 considering that two hangars and at least five

 aircraft were ablaze. He could hear people shouting, about

 fire, about water, about missiles, about staying under

 cover. Straining hard he could hear several cruise

 missiles 'and airplanesup there in the

 darksamerican airplanes, because in order to save

 money, the Cuban Air Force, the

 Fuerza Aerea Revolucionaria,

 did not fly at night.

 What was happening? Where was the war?

 Carlos Corrado had no illusions about the

 difficulties involved in engaging the American

 military. His MiGo-29, a stripped Soviet

 export version, had only the most rudimentary of

 electronic detection equipment and lacked any

 active countermeasures. And his GCI site was

 probably in the same condition as the burning hangars

 behind him.

 If he left his radar off he would not beacon on the

 Americans" detection equipment. And he would be

 electronically blind.

 Perhaps if he stayed low ...

 Another cruise missile roared overhead and dove

 into the last undamaged hangar. The 750-pound

 warhead rocked

 the base, then the hangar collapsed outward, its

 walls silhouetted black against the yellowish white

 fireball caused by the warhead.

 Well, if the Americans were pounding Cienfuegos,

 they must be pulverizing Jose Marti International in

 Havana.

 Havana. The war would be in Havana, so

 that was where he would go.

 The V-22 Osprey twin-engine tiltrotor

 assault transport was the ultimate flying

 machine, or so Rita Moravia liked to tell her

 husband, Toad Tarkington. It hovered like a

 helicopter and flew like an airplane, operated from

 the deck of an airborne assault ship, and was at

 its best after the sun went down.

 So here she was, in the pilot's seat of a V-22

 on her way to a ballistic-missile silo in the

 Matanzas Province of central Cuba with 24

 combat-ready marines, loaded for bear. She had

 made a vertical takeoff from

 Kearsarge

 and was now thundering along at two thousand feet over the

 Cuban countryside at 250 knots, navigating

 by GPS and monitoring the forward-looking infrared

 display (Flir), which revealed the countryside

 ahead as if the sun were shining down from a cloudless

 sky.

 Rita's copilot was Captain Crash Wade,

 USMC, who earned his nickname in an unfortunate

 series of ski adventures, not flying accidents.

 Wade paid careful attention to the multi-function

 displays (Mfd's), computer presentations

 of everything the pilots needed to know, on the instrument

 panel in front of him.

 Rita was paying careful attention to the voice on the

 radio, which was that of Asel Ty vek, NCO in

 charge of the marine recon team at silo number

 two. Rita didn't know his real name, just his call

 sign, Blue One.

 "Old Rover, this is Blue One. I want you

 to hold four minutes out while we get some ordnance

 on this LZ. It's sizzling hot."

 "Old Rover, Roger."...Rita keyed the intercom.

 "Okay, Crash, do a holding pattern."

 "How come we got the hot LZ"..."...CRASH wanted

 to know.

 "Just lucky, I guessea"...Rita replied, and

 selected an intercom button that would allow her

 to talk to the lieutenant in the cargo bay with his

 troops.

 Asel Tyvek and Jamail Ali were side by side

 in the ditch, just thirty yards or so from the barn. The

 other two members of the team were also in the ditch, but

 well left and right.

 "We ought to get in the barnea"...Ali whispered, "in

 case the Cubans want to get in there too."

 "Man, those little boards ain't gonna

 protect anybody from anything. You just be ready in

 case the Cubans start diving into this damned ditch with

 us."

 "Listen, I can hear our guys coming."

 Tyvek strained his ears. Yep, he could just detect

 the distinctive beat of chopper rotors. "Snake

 One, Blue Oneea"...he whispered into his radio.

 "Cuban troops all around the barn. At least

 two tanks, eight or nine trucks, a couple

 hundred men. We're in a ditch near the barn."

 "Got your head down?"

 "Yeah."

 Tyvek could hear the choppers distinctly now. He

 eased his weapon up, put his finger on the safety.

 The Cubans were going to be looking for cover very

 shortly, and he didn't want to share the ditch.

 The SuperCobras eased up over the tree line,

 barely moving. Tyvek knew what was going to happen

 next, and it did. He heard the roar as

 Hellfire antiarmor missiles screamed toward

 the tanks, and he heard the explosions as they hit.

 He lifted his head above the ditch line for a quick

 peek. The tanks were smoking hulks. Even as he

 watched, more missiles tore into the trucks.

 377

 Not a standing figure could be seen. Everyone was on the

 ground, crawling or lying still.

 The two SuperCobras came closer. The noise

 of their engines was quite plain now. The flex

 three-barreled 20mm cannons opened up and

 rockets shot forward from the pylons under the stubby

 wings.

 The men in the yard realized they couldn't stay where they

 werethe area was a killing zone. Some jumped up and

 ran for the ditch. Fortunately few of them seemed

 to have weapons in their handsthe attack had caught them

 by surprise.

 "Here they comeea"...Tyvek shouted, and opened up on the

 men closest to the ditch. He couldn't shoot them fast

 enough. Men dashed for the cover of the ditch as he and

 Ali and the other two poured fire into them and the

 SuperCobras lashed the area with ordnance.

 Tyvek spoke into the voice-activated mike on

 his helmet-mounted radio. "We're gonna need

 some help, Old Rover. Whenever you can get here."

 Something heavy fell across Tyvek's legs. He

 spun and fired at the same time, but the man was already

 dead: Ali had shot him.

 "They're going into the barnff"...Ali shouted. He fired

 a whole magazine at three men trying

 to get through the front door. One of the men disappeared

 inside.

 Jamail Ali scrambled over the edge of the ditch and

 ran for the barn while Tyvek screamed at the

 SuperCobra gunners not to shoot him.

 "Snake One Four, this is Orange

 One."...Richard Merriweather let go of the mike and

 waited for an answer from the SuperCobra inbound

 to silo six.

 "Orange One, Snake One Four."

 "Man, we're on the wrong side of this river or

 creek five or six clicks south of the LZ.

 How about seeing if you can find us."

 "Are you standing up?"

 "In plain sight."

 Merriweather and his partner, Kirb Handy, stepped

 away from the trees. With their night-vision goggles,

 the SuperCobra crewmen should have no trouble seeing

 two men standing in an open field, and they didn't.

 Both the helicopters settled to earth and the marines

 on the ground ran to them.

 The pilot of the lead chopper opened his canopy as

 Merriweather ran over. "Where are the other guys?"

 "Haven't seen them or talked to them. Don't

 know."

 "Seen any bad guys?"

 "Nope. How about a ride over toward the barn?"

 "Sit on the skid and grab hold. We run

 into trouble, you gotta get off if we drop down

 low."

 Merriweather gave the pilot a thumbs-up and

 arranged himself on the skid. Handy was clinging to the

 skid on the other side.

 The chopper came slowly into a hover, then dipped

 its nose and began moving forward. Merriweather held

 on for dear life as the rotor downwash and

 slipstream tore at his clothing, helmet, and gear,

 and threatened to rip the night vision goggles from his

 head.

 What a stupid idea this was! How in hell had

 they ended up four miles south of the goddamned landing

 zone? If he ever again laid eyes on that son of a

 bitch who flew the Here, he was going to stomp his

 ass.

 Bryne and McCormickthose two were missing.

 If they were okay surely they would have checked in on

 the radio. Maybe their parachutes didn't open.

 Maybe they fell into that river. Maybe the

 Cubans captured them as soon as they hit the

 ground. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

 He could see the barn now. The chopper was just a few

 feet above the trees, making an approach to the area

 right in front of the damn thing. The other chopper was

 flying over the trees, three or four hundred

 yards awayclose, but not too close.

 Nobody in sight around the barn. Not a soul.

 Merriweather jumped when the chopper was three feet

 off the ground, and fell on his face. He got up,

 staggered out from under the rotor blast.

 Handy appeared at his elbow.

 The glow of a cigarette tip showed in the door.

 Someone sitting there!

 Merriweather froze, his M-16 at the ready.

 A marine sat in the open door smoking d

 cigarette. His face and neck were coated with green

 and brown camo grease. His helmet and night-vision

 goggles lay in the dirt beside him.

 Merriweather walked over to the man, who said, "No

 one around."

 "Where's Bryne?"

 McCormick nodded toward the east. "Over there about

 a hundred yards. Parachute streamed, backup

 didn't open."

 "Your radio?"

 "Broke. Bryne's got smashed."...McCormick

 stood, took a last drag on the cigarette, and

 tossed it away. "Been sitting here waiting for you.

 The place is deserted, quiet as a graveyard."

 "Too bad about Bryne."

 "Left two little kids. Too fucking bad."

 The interior of the barn was large, empty, and dark.

 Merriweather used a flashlight, looked in eve

 caret you corner, inspected the ceiling, the floor,

 the nooks and crannys.

 Then he spoke into his boom microphone.

 "Let's get the Osprey into the LZ, set up a

 perimeter."

 Through her night-vision goggles, Rita Moravia

 could see the silo two landing zone and the hovering

 SuperCobras plain as day as she made her

 approach in the Osprey. She saw bodies lying

 everywhere, still-warm bodies radiating heat, and she

 saw living men. She transitioned to hovering flight

 and lowered the Osprey toward the ground between the

 choppers. A cloud of dirt and dust rose up,

 obscuring everything. She went on instruments.

 On the intercom she told the lieutenant to get

 ready.

 As soon as the wheels hit, the marines in

 back charged out the door of the Osprey and kept right

 on going for fifty yards, when they went down on their

 stomachs with their rifles at the ready.

 Rita didn't wait to see what was going to happen

 next. As soon as her crew chief said the last

 marine was out, she lifted the Osprey into the air,

 climbed straight up out of the dust cloud and only then

 began the transition to winged flight.

 The lieutenant was named Charlie Herron, and he

 had his orders. His primary responsibility was

 to ensure that the missile in that silo never left the

 ground. As his feet hit the ground, he flopped on

 his belly and waited while the roaring Osprey

 climbed away. When the dust began to clear, he

 spotted the barn and went for it on a run.

 Bodies and body parts lay scattered everywhere. The

 living men he passed sat in the dirt with empty

 hands reaching for the sky. Herron shouted over the

 radio, "Cease-fire, cease-fire. They are

 surrendering."

 Inside the barn he found Asel Tyvek standing over

 a dead Cuban.

 "Over here, Lieutenant. I think this wooden thing

 is a door."

 Tyvek and Herron opened the wooden

 door, which revealed a steel door with built-in

 combination lock. "Think there's anybody in

 there"..."...Herron asked. After all, Tyvek had been

 here longer than he had.

 "I don't know, sir."

 "Well, we gotta get in there. Let's blow the

 door."

 A charge of C-4 took less than a minute

 to rig. The two men took cover behind a wooden

 stall.

 The explosion was sharp, a metallic wham that rang

 their ears.

 The demolition charge cut the lock clean out of the

 door and warped it. The two men pried the door

 open. A stairway lit by naked light bulbs led

 away downward. Herron

 and Tyvek took off their night-vision goggles and

 let them dangle around their necks. With Herron in

 the lead with his pistol in his hand, the two of them

 descended the stairway.

 Aboard

 United States

 Jake Grafton was getting the blowby-blow

 update. Air Intelligence officers annotated

 the maps and briefers told him of every

 report from the silos. "Heavy firefight around

 silos one and two.""...ationo opposition at sites

 four, five and six.""...Ospreys on the ground at

 sites two, three, and four.""...SeaCobra hit and

 in trouble at site one.""Team leader into silo

 two."..."...Recon leader into silo six."

 Each report was entered on a checklist: there were

 eight of them, one for each silo and dairy site.

 First Lieutenant Charlie Herron and Asel

 Tyvek found the control room of silo two

 empty. A series of stairs and more steel doors

 led downward to the bottom of the concrete structure.

 The doors weren't locked. When he opened the last

 door, there was the missile towering upward. The shiny,

 painted fuselage reflected pinpoints of light from

 the naked bulbs arranged around the top and sides of the

 concrete silo.

 Under the missile was a steel grate over a black

 hole. That was the flame pit, to exhaust the flame

 and gases when the missile was launched.

 A circular steel stairway led up to a

 catwalk. From the catwalk it appeared a person

 could reach over and gain access to the missile's

 warhead and control panel.

 Herron bolstered his pistol and turned

 to Sergeant Tyvek. "See if you can figure out a

 way to safety this bottle rocket so they can't

 fire it from Havana while I'm working on it."

 "Lieutenant, I've got bad news for you. I

 don't know shit about guided missiles."

 "Well, you sure as hell don't want to be standing

 here

 with your thumb up your butt if they light this thing off.

 Now go look for a switch or something."

 "Yes,

 sir"

 Tyvek said, and disappeared back up the stairway.

 Herron took the steps two at a time. He hoped

 he would find what he expected when he got to the

 catwalk, although he thought a lot of the old

 Russian engineer's explanation had been pure

 bullshit. Somebody had found an engineer in

 Russia who said he helped design these

 missilesthe guy was hi his eighties. They had him

 on television for an hour explaining how the business

 end of the missile was put together. The engineer spoke

 not a word of English so a translator did the

 talking. The man had a hell of a memory or was

 lying through his teeth. Herron was about to find out which was the

 case.

 "If it's typical Russian stuffea"...the

 American briefer said, "you'll be able to work on it

 with pliers and screwdrivers. American designers

 could learn a lot from Russian engineers, who

 design for ease of maintenance." They gave each

 officer and NCO who might get near a missile

 a small tool pouch.

 Herron examined the access panel, which was only about

 six inches long by six inches high, and curved, a

 part of the missile's skin. The screws holding it

 hi place looked like Dzus fasteners. They

 weren't, though: they were plain old screws. Careful

 not to drop mem, he unscrewed them one by one and put

 the screws hi a shirt pocket. There were a dozen

 screws, just like the Russian engineer said. Okay!

 So far so good.

 Sweat dripped down his nose, ran into his eyes.

 He wiped the palms of his hands on his camo pants

 and used his sleeve to swab his face, then went back

 to twisting the screwdriver. He worked as quickly as he

 could. comFinally he took out the last screw.

 Carefully, ever so carefully, Herron pulled off

 the access panel and laid it on the catwalk by his

 feet. He dug a small flashlight from his

 pocket. Looking through the access

 panel, he could see lots of wires. And a

 stainless-steel sphere about the size of a

 basketball. That, he concluded, must be the

 biological warhead. The missile had been

 designed for a nuclear warhead, which would have been round,

 so the biological warhead had to go into the same

 space. Yet the warhead was too large to come out this

 little six-inch access hole.

 Charlie Herron reached through the hole to his elbow,

 felt upward with his ear against the skin of the missile.

 Yes, he could feel the latch. He opened it. Now

 down ... one there too. Right, then left.

 With the last latch open, he pulled at the panel he

 had his arm in. It came out in his hand, making a

 hole at least twenty inches across. So the engineer

 had been telling the truth.

 Herron turned to put the panel on the

 catwalk... and dropped it.

 It fell, striking the side of the missile, finally

 landing on the grate at the bottom with a tinny sound,

 much like the lid of a garbage can.

 Charlie Herron grabbed the rails of the catwalk and

 held on to keep from falling.

 He wiped his face on his sleeves, the palms of

 his hands on his trousers.

 Using a pair of wire snips, the lieutenant

 began clipping wires, then pulling the ends out of the

 way so he could see how the warhead was held in

 place.

 William Henry Chance and Tommy Carmellini

 stepped from their Osprey transport wearing their

 CBW suits. Two marines similarly clad

 followed them. Each marine carried a cylinder about

 six feet long and five inches in diameter

 balanced on his shoulder.

 Doll Hanna was waiting for them as they approached

 the main entrance. "I count five people in the clean

 areaea"...he said. "They don't know we're here yet.

 The aircirculation system is pretty loud."

 Chance went to the partially open door and eased his head

 around for a peek. He counted the people inside. Five.

 He had been thinking about this moment ever since Jake

 Grafton asked him to take out this facility. If

 the integrity of the sealed area was broken before the fire

 got hot enough to destroy the virus, some of the virus

 might escape. If there were any free viruses in

 the air inside there, or if one of the culture

 trays was broken, intentionally or unintentionally ...

 How much was some? Who could say?

 He pulled his head back, looked at

 Doll Hanna, looked at the marines carrying the

 cylinders on their shoulders.

 Well, it was a hell of a risk. A

 hell

 of a risk.

 Just then William Henry Chance wished he were back

 in New York City, eating dinner at a nice

 restaurant or preparing a case for trial or

 sitting at home with the woman who had shared his life

 for the past ten years. Anywhere but here.

 "Give me your rifleea"...he said to Hanna, who

 handed him. his M-16.

 "Is it loaded?"

 "Full. Selector is on single shot. This is

 the safety."...Hanna touched it.

 "Okayea"...sd William Henry Chance.

 He turned to Carmellini. "If worse comes

 to worst, you know what to do."

 Carmellini didn't say anything.

 The dumb shit is probably wishing he was safe and

 snug in a federal pen,

 Chance thought.

 He pointed the rifle at the ground and held it

 close to his leg, then eased the door open and

 stepped inside. No Cuban saw him.

 They were looking intently at something in a sealed unit

 with remote-control arms. A radio was playing

 somewhere, playing loudly.

 Chance stepped into the air lock, stood there looking

 at the people while he waited for the interior door

 to unlock automatically.

 He recognized the voice on the radio: Alejo

 Vargas. The gravelly flat delivery was

 unmistakable.

 "My fellow Cubans, now is the hour to rally to the

 defense of our holy mother country. Tonight even as I

 speak the nation is under attack from American

 military forces, who have leveled the awesome might of

 their armed forces against the eleven million

 peaceful'people of Cuba."

 Ten seconds passed, fifteen, twenty. After a

 half minute, the interior door clicked. Chance

 pushed it open and stepped into the lab.

 Racks holding eight or ten culture trays

 each stood beside the benches. He lifted the rifle,

 thumbed off the safety, walked forward toward the working

 figures, who still had their backs to him. The tables

 on both sides of the aisles contained tools, parts,

 glassware, specialized instruments.

 "Join with me in fighting the forces of the devil, the

 forces of capitalism and exploitation that seek

 to enslave the Cuban people so that the Yanquis can

 manufacture more dollars for themselves...."

 One of the workers spotted Chance when he was ten feet

 away, and turned in his direction.

 Chance gestured with the rifle, motioned for them to raise

 their hands. They did so.

 still

 should just shoot them,

 he thought, acutely aware of the culture trays just

 beside his elbow, and theirs.

 Maybe I won't have to.

 Backing up between two tables, he jerked his head

 back the way he had come, toward the air lock,

 gestured with the barrel of the rifle.

 "Our hour of glory is nowea"...Alejo Vargas

 thundered, "an hour that will live in all of Cuban

 history as the supreme triumphant moment of our

 people, that moment in the history of the world when we humble people

 struck back against the enslaver and oppressor and

 became forever free...."

 Slowly, watching Chance, the closest man began

 moving, passed him, kept walking with his hands up.

 The second man passed.

 The third ...

 He was turning to look at the fourth man when the man

 grabbed the barrel of the rifle with one hand and stabbed

 Chance in the solar plexus with the other.

 William Henry Chance looked down at the handle

 sticking out of his abdomen. A screwdriver! The

 man had stabbed him with a screwdriver.

 The man was fighting him for the rifle!

 A shot. He heard a shot over the noise of the

 aircirculation fans. The man who stabbed him

 collapsed.

 More shots.

 Chance fell. His legs didn't work anymore and

 he was having trouble breathing.

 "Kill the American enslavers wherever you find them,

 wherever they choose to shovel their odious filth onto

 a committed socialist peopleea"...Vargas shouted over the

 radio. "Beloved Cuba, the mother of us all, needs

 our strong right arms,"

 On the floor, his vision narrowing to tiny points of

 light, fighting for air he couldn't get, William

 Henry Chance felt someone roll him over. Through the

 face plate on the mask of the man who held him,

 he could just make out Carmellini's features.

 "You should have shot 'emea"...Carmellini shouted.

 "You stupid bastard, you should have shot 'em."

 Chance was trying to suck in enough air to reply when his

 heart stopped.

 Carmellini and the two marines in CBW suits

 carried the aluminum cylinders they had brought from the

 Osprey into the lab and set them down. There was not a

 moment to be lost. Bullets had gone through several

 of the men lying dead on the floor and punctured the

 transparent plastic walls of the facility.

 The two marines went back after more cylinders while

 Carmellini brought plastic cans of gasoline through

 the air

 lock. He didn't have time to wait for the lock to work,

 so he jammed the door so it would not close.

 Please God, don't let the viruses out.

 With six cylinders on the floor near the cultures

 and ten gallons of gasoline sitting nearby,

 Carmellini was ready. The five Cubans who were

 working in the lab lay where they had fallen. Chance's

 body lay where he died. Carmellini ignored the

 bodies as he worked.

 He gestured to the marines to leave, then turned to the

 nearest cylinder, which was a five-inch-diameter

 magnesium flare designed to be dropped from an

 airplane. A small steel ring was taped

 to the side of the thinghe tore that off and pulled it out as

 far as it would go, which was ab"...a foot. Then he gave

 it a mighty tug, which tore it loose in his hand.

 He laid the cylinder on the wooden floor and

 walked for the air lock. As he went through he

 released the door, allowing it to close.

 He still had a few seconds, so he stood in the

 lock as the suction tore at his CBW suit,

 trying to cleanse it of dust and stray viruses.

 But he was running out of time.

 He pushed the emergency button and let himself out of the

 lock through the exterior door. Walking swiftly,

 he exited the barn and strode for the waiting Osprey.

 Doll Hanna was standing there with a rifle in his arms.

 "Let's get the men"...Carmellini began, but the

 ignition of the flare stopped him. The glare of a

 hundred-millioncandlepower magnesium fire

 leaked out of the barn through the door and cracks in the

 siding.

 "Let's get the hell out of here before it goes up like

 a rocketea"...Carmellini shouted, and trotted for the

 Osprey.

 Three minutes later, with all the people aboard and the

 plane airborne, he went to the cockpit and

 looked back. The fire was as bright as a

 welder's torch, so brilliant it hurt his eyes

 to look. The heat of the first flare had set off the

 second, and so on. The heat from the first few flares

 probably caused the gasoline cans to explode,

 raising the temperature dramatically and helping

 ignite the other flares.

  "Think the fire will kill all the viruses"..."...the

 pilot asked.

 "I don't knowea"...Carmellini said grimly, and went

 back to his seat. He didn't have any juice

 to waste on the merely worried.

 There were just too many Cuban troops at silo one.

 The two SuperCobras assigned there expended their

 Hellfire missiles on the tanks and trucks,

 then scourged the area with 20-mm cannon shells.

 Between them the assault choppers fired fifteen

 hundred rounds of 20-mm. As the first two

 assault choppers left the arena to refuel and

 rearm, Battlestar Control aboard

 United States

 routed other SuperCobras to the site. They began

 flaying the area with a vengeance.

 The problem was that the troops were fairly well dug

 in. Almost a thousand men had arrived in the area early

 that morning under an energetic young commander who

 had ordered trenches dug and machine guns emplaced

 in earth and log fortifications. Two small

 bulldozers helped with the digging.

 The machine-gun nests were gone now, victims of

 Hellfire missiles, but the troops in trenches

 were harder to kill. . Fortunately for the Cubans, the

 trenches were not straight, but zigged and zagged around

 trees and stones and natural obstacles.

 The young commander was dead now, killed by a single

 cannon shell that tore his head off when he tried

 to look over the lip of a trench to find the

 SuperCobras. Most of his officers were also dead.

 One of the SuperCobras had been shot down

 by machine-gun fire. A Cuban trooper with an

 AK-47 killed the pilot of another with a lucky

 shot in the neck. The first chopper managed

 to autorotate down-, and the crew jumped from their

 machine into an empty

 trench. The copilot of the second machine flew it

 out of the battle and headed for the refueling and rearming

 site the marines had established in a sugarcane

 field between silos three and four.

 The SuperCobras on site were almost out of ammo,

 and they too went to the refueling site, where they were

 fueled from bladders and rearmed with ammo

 brought in by Ospreys from

 Kearsarge.

 Then they rejoined the fray.

 The noise of eight assault choppers hovering around

 the battlefield that centered on the barn did the

 trick. One by one, the Cubans threw down their

 weapons and climbed out of their trenches with their hands

 over their heads.

 Several of the SuperCobras turned on their landing

 lights and hovered over the barn, turning this way and that

 so that their lights shone over the men, living and dead, that

 littered the ground.

 Minutes later an Osprey landed just a hundred

 feet from the entrance to the barn. Toad Tarkington was

 the last man out. He was ten feet from the V-22 and

 running like hell when it lifted off and another

 settled onto the same spot. Marines with rifles

 at the ready came pouring out.

 With his engines running and the canopy closed, Major

 Carlos Corrado taxied his MiGo-29 toward the

 runway at Cienfuegos. Two rnen walked

 ahead of the fighter with brooms, sweeping shrapnel and

 rocks off the concrete so the fighter's tires would not

 be cut. They weren't worried about this stuff going in

 the intakes: on the ground the MiGo-29's

 engines breathed through blow-down panels on top of the

 fuselage while the main intakes remained closed.

 Inside the fighter Corrado was watching his

 electronic warning equipment. As he suspected,

 the Americans had a bunch of radars aloft tonight,

 everything from large search radars to fighter radars.

 He immediately recognized the radar signature of the

 F-14 Tomcat, which he had seen just a week or

 so ago out over the Caribbean.

 Yep, they were up there, and as soon as his wheels

 came up, they would be trying to kill him.

 Carlos Corrado taxied his MiGo-29 onto the

 runway and shoved the twin throttles forward to the

 stop, then into afterburner. The MiGo-29 rocketed

 forward. Safely airborne, Corrado raised the

 landing gear and came out of afterburner. Passing 400

 knots, he lowered the nose and retarded the

 throttles, then swung into a turn that would point the

 sleek Russian fighter at Havana.

 Inside the barn at silo one, Toad Tarkington

 took in the carnage at a glance. He was the first

 American through the door.

 Cannon shells and shrapnel from Hellfire

 warheads had played hob with the wooden barn

 structure. Holes and splintered boards

 and timbers were everywherestanding inside, Toad could see

 the landing lights of the helicopters and hear

 Americans shouting.

 Apparently several dozen men had taken refuge in

 the barn; their bloody bodies lay where the bullets

 or shrapnel or splinters from the timbers cut them

 down. The floor and walls were splattered with

 blood.

 Toad found the wooden door, got it open, used his

 flashlight to examine the steel inner door. He

 set three C-4 charges around the combination lock and

 took cover.

 The charges tore the lock out of the door and warped the

 thing so badly it wouldn't open. Toad struggled with

 it, only got it open because two marines came in

 to check out the interior and gave him a hand.

 The stairway on the other side of the door was in

 total darkness. Not a glimmer of light.

 With his flashlight in his left hand and his pistol in his

 right, Toad slowly worked his way down.

 He saw lightbulbs in sockets over his head, but

 they were not on. Once he came to a switch. He

 flipped it on and off several times. No

 electrical power.

 At the bottom of the stairs he came to a

 larger room.

 The beam of the flashlight caught an instrument

 panel, a control console. A bit of a face ...

 Toad brought the light back to the face.

 A white face, eyes scrunched against the

 flashlight glare. An old man, skinny, with

 short white hair, frozen in the flashlight beam,

 holding his hands above his head.

 The radar operator in the E-3 Sentry AW

 ACS plane over Key West was the first to see the

 MiGo-29 get airborne from Cienfuegos. He

 keyed the intercom and reported the sighting to the

 supervisor, who used the computer to verify the

 track, then reported it to Battlestar Control.

 The AW ACS crew reported the MiGo as a

 bogey and assigned it a track number. They would

 be able to classify it as to type as soon as the

 pilot turned on his radar.

 Unfortunately, Carlos Corrado failed

 to cooperate. He disleft his radar switch in the off

 position. He also stayed low, just a few hundred

 meters above the treetops.

 There are few places more lonely than the cockpit

 of a single-piloted airplane-at night when

 surrounded by the enemy. Corrado felt that

 loneliness now, felt as if he were the only person

 still alive on Spaceship Earth.

 The red glow of the cockpit lights comforted him

 somewhat: this was really the only home he had ever had.

 The lights of Havana were prominent tnhe saw the

 glow at fifty miles even though he was barely a

 thousand feet above sea level. He climbed a little

 higher, looking, and saw a huge fire, quite

 brilliant.

 Carlos Corrado turned toward the fire. Perhaps

 he would find some airborne targets. He turned

 on his gun switch and armed the infrared missiles.

 The E-2 controller datalinked the bogey information

 to the F-14 crew patrolling over central

 Cuba at 30,000 feet. There should have been two

 F-14's, a section, but one plane had

 mechanical problems prior to launch, so there was

 only one fighter on this station.

 The bogey appeared on the scope of the radar

 intercept officer, the RIO, in the rear seat of the

 Tomcat. He narrowed the scan of his radar and

 tried to acquire a lock on the target, which was

 merely a blip that faded in and out against the ground

 clutter.

 "What the hell is it"..."...the pilot demanded,

 referring to the bogey.

 "I don't knowea"...was the reply, and therein was the

 problem. Without a positive identification,

 visual or electronic, of the bogey, the rules

 of engagement prohibited the American pilot from

 firing his weapons. There were simply too many

 American planes and helicopters flying around in

 the darkness over Cuba to allow people to blaze away at

 unknown targets.

 The darkness below was alive with lights, the lights of

 cities and small towns, villages, vehicles,

 and here and there, antiaircraft artilleryflakwhich was

 probing the darkness with random bursts. Fortunately the

 gunners could not use radar to acquire a, targetthe

 instant they turned a radar on, they drew a

 HARM missile from the EA-6BS and

 FirstA-18's that circled on their assigned

 stations, listening.

 The F-14 pilot, whose name was Wallace P.

 "Stiff" Hardwick, got on the radio

 to Battlestar Control. "Battlestar, Showtime One

 Oh Nine, request permission to investigate this

 bogey."

 "Wait."

 Stiff expected that. Being a fighter

 pilot in this day and age wasn't like the good old

 days, when you went cruising for a fight. Not that he was

 there for the good old days, but Stiff had sure heard

 about them.

 "That goddamn Cuban is gonna zap somebody

 while the people on the boat are scratching their

 assea"...Stiff told his RIO, Boots

 VonRauenzahn.

 "Yeahea"...sd Boots, who never paid much attention

 to Stiff's grousing.

 STEPHEN COONTS

 Carlos Corrado saw that a building was on

 fire, burning with extraordinary intensity. Never

 had he seen such a hot flre. He assumed that the

 building had been bombed by a cruise missile or

 American plane disand began visually searching the

 sky nearby for some hint of another aircraft.

 He flew right over the V-22 Osprey carrying

 Tommy Carmellini and Doll Hanna back to the

 ship and never saw it.

 A lot of flak was rising from the outskirts of

 Havana, so Carlos turned east, away from it.

 In the black velvet ahead he saw lights, and

 steered toward them. At 500 knots he

 closed quickly, and saw helicopters' landing lights!

 They were flying back and forth over a large barn!

 They must be Americansthey sure as hell weren't

 Cuban. As far as he knew, he was the only

 Cuban in the air tonight.

 Corrado flew past the areanow down to 400 knots

 and did a 90-degree left turn, then a

 270-degree right turn. Level, inbound, he

 retarded the throttles of the two big engines.

 Three hundred knots... he picked the landing

 lights on some land of strange-looking twin rotor

 helicopter and pushed the nose over just a tad,

 bringing the strange chopper into the gunsight. Then he

 pulled the trigger on the stick.

 The 30-mm cannon shells smashed into Rita

 Moravia's Osprey with devastating effect. She

 was in the midst of a transition from wing-borne

 to rotor-borne flight and had the engines pointed up

 at a seventy-degree angle. The rotors were

 carrying most of the weight of the twenty-ton ship, so

 when the cannon shells ripped into the right engine and it

 ceased developing power, the V-22 began sinking

 rapidly.

 The good engine automatically went to emergency

 torque and transferred some of its power to the

 rotor of the

 bad engine through a driveshaft that connected the two

 rotor transmissions.

 With shells thumping into the plane and warning lights

 flashing, Rita felt the right wing sag. Some of the

 shells must have damaged the right transmission!

 The ground rushed at her, even as cannon shells

 continued to strike the plane.

 She pulled the stick back and left, trying to make

 the right rotor take a bigger bite.

 Then the machine struck the earth and the instrument panel

 smashed into her night vision goggles.

 In the missile control room, Toad Tarkington

 held his flashlight on the old man as he

 produced a candle from his pocket and a kitchen match.

 He lit the match and applied it to the candle's

 wick.

 One candle wasn't much, but it did light the room.

 Toad turned off the flashlight and stood there

 looking at the old man.

 Muffled crashing sounds reached him, echoed down the

 stairwell, but no one came. Toad's headset was

 quiet too, probably since he was underground.

 "Do you speak English"..."...Toad asked the

 white-haired man in front of him.

 The old man shook his head.

 "Espanol?"

 "Si, senor."

 "Well, I don't."

 Toad walked over and checked the man, who had no

 visible weapons on him.

 He had a handful of plastic ties in his pocket.

 These ties were issued to every marine for the sole purpose

 of securing prisoners' hands, and feet if necessary.

 Toad put a tie around the old man's hands. The

 man didn't resist; merely sat at the control

 console with his face a mask, showing no emotion.

 "Cuban"..."...Toad asked.

 "Nyet."

 "Russki?"

 The white head bobbed once, then was still.

 Toad used the flashlight to inspect the console,

 to examine the instruments. This stuff was old, he could

 see that. Everything was mechanical, no digital

 gauges or readouts, no computer displays ... the

 console reminded Toad of the dashboard of a 1950's

 automobile, with round gauges and bezels and ...

 Well, without power, all this was academic.

 His job was to get that damned warhead out of the

 missile, then set demolition charges

 to destroy all this stuff, missile, control room,

 and all. He left the Russian at the console and

 opened the blast-proof door across the room from the

 stair where he had entered.

 Another stairway led downward.

 Toad went as quickly as he dared, still holding the

 flashlight hi one hand and his pistol in the other.

 He went through one more steel door... and there the

 missile stood, white and massive and surreal in

 the weak beam of the flashlight.

 The aviation radio frequencies exploded when

 Rita's plane was shot down as everyone tried

 to talk at once.

 Battlestar Control finally managed to get a word in

 over the babble, a call to Stiff Hardwick. "Go

 down for a look. Possible hostile may have shot

 down an Osprey."

 Stiff didn't need any urging. He rolled the

 Tomcat onto its back, popped the speed

 brakes, and started down.

 "Silo oneea"...Boots said. "This bogey is

 flitting around down there like a goddamn bat or

 something, mixing it up with the SuperCobras and

 Ospreys. Let's not shoot down any of the good

 guys."

 "No shitea"...sd Stiff, who was sure he could handle

 any Cuban fighter pilot alive. This guy was

 meat on the table: he just didn't know it yet.

 Carlos Corrado pulled out of his strafing ran and

 soared up to three thousand feet. He extended out for

 eight or nine miles before he laid the fighter over

 in a hard turn.

 He had seen helicopters d6wn there, at least

 two. It was time to use the radar.

 As he stabilized inbound he flipped the radar

 switch to "transmit." He pushed the button for

 moving targets and sure enough, within seconds the

 pulse-doppler radar in the nose of the MiGo-29

 had found three. The rest of the drill was simplicity

 xfhe selected an Aphid missile, locked it

 on a target, and fired. Working quickly, he

 selected a second missile, locked on a

 second target, and fired.

 He had to keep the targets illuminated while the

 Aphids were in flight, so he continued inbound toward

 the silo.

 One of the SuperCobras exploded when an Aphid

 drilled it dead center. The second missile

 tore the tail rotor off its target, which spun

 violently into the ground and caught fire.

 Carlos Corrado flew across the barn, holding his

 heading, extending out before he turned to make another

 shooting pass.

 Toad Tarkington found the circular steel ladder

 leading upward in the missile silo and began

 climbing.

 When he reached the catwalk he walked around the

 missile, examining the skin. There was the little access

 port, six inches by six inches, with the dozen

 screws! That had to be it.

 Toad Tarkington put the flashlight under his left

 armpit and got out a screwdriver.

 He had three screws out when the flashlight

 slipped out of his armpit and fell. It bounced off the

 catwalk and went on down beside the missile, breaking

 when it hit the grate at the bottom.

 The darkness in the silo was total.

 Toad Tarkington cursed softly, and went back

 to taking out screws. He worked by feel. Someone would

 come along in a minute, he thought, bringing another

 flashlight: If

 someone didn't, he would take the time to go find

 another.

 The trick, he knew, would be to hold on to the

 screwdriver. He only had one, and if

 he dropped it, it would go down the grate.

 He heard muffled noises from above, but he couldn't

 tell what they were. It didn't really matter,

 he decided. Getting this warhead out of this missile

 was priority one.

 Carefully, working by feel, he removed the screws

 from the access panel one by one. When he had the last

 one out, he pried at the panel. It came off

 easily enough and he laid it on the catwalk near his

 feet.

 So far so good. He carefully stowed the screwdriver

 in his tool bag and wiped the sweat from his face and

 hands.

 Okay.

 Toad reached up to find the latch that the ancient

 Russian engineer on television had said should be

 here. God knows where the CIA found that guy!

 Yep. He found the latch.

 He rotated it. Now the latch on the left. He

 was having his troubles getting that latch to turn when the

 lights came on in the silo.

 From instant darkness to glaring light from twenty or more

 bulbs.

 Toad Tarkington pulled his arm from the missile,

 clapped his hands over his eyes and squinted,

 waiting for his eyes to adjust.

 He could hear a hum. Must be a fan or blower

 moving air.

 No. The hum was in the missile, just a foot or

 two from his head.

 Something winding up. The pitch was rising rapidly.

 A gyro?

 What was going on?

 Toad started down the ladder, moving as fast as he

 could go, intending to go to the control room to see what in

 hell was happening.

 He heard a grinding noise, loud, low-pitched, and

 looked up. The cap on the silo was opening.

 Holy...

 He still had his tools. If he could get that access

 panel off and cut the guidance wires, the wires

 to control the warhead...

 Toad Tarkington scrambled back up the ladder,

 The little six-by-six access hole gaped at him.

 He ran his arm in, trying to reach the other latches

 that would allow the large panel to come off.

 He got one open. The gyro had ceased

 to accelerateit was running steadily now, a

 high-pitched steady whine.

 Holy shit!

 He was out of time: the fire from the missile's engines

 would fry him to a cinder.

 He heard the igniters firing, popping like jet

 engine igniters.

 The rocket motors lit with a mighty whoosh.

 Toad grabbed for the access hole with both hands,

 held on desperately as the missile began

 to rise on a column of fire.

 The noise was beyond deafeningit was the loudest thing

 Toad Tarkington had ever heard, a soul-numbing

 roar that made his flesh quiver and vibrated his

 teeth.

 Rising ... the missile was rising, dragging him off

 the catwalk.

 He clung to the access hole with all his strength,

 The missile came out of the silo, past the floor

 of the barn, accelerating, going up, up, up....

 The tip of the missile burst through the rotten,

 shattered roof and threw wood in every direction.

 As it did Toad curled his feet up against the

 fuselage of the missile, released his hold on the

 access hole, and kicked off.

 He flew through the darkness, bounced on the collapsing

 roof, felt the blast of furnace heat as the

 rocket motors singed him, then he was

 falling, falling....

 * * *

 Stiff Hardwick couldn't believe his eyes. He

 had his F-14 Tomcat down at 4,000 feet,

 fifteen miles from silo one, and was impatiently

 waiting for Boots to sort out the villain from the other

 airborne targets in the area when he saw the

 ballistic missile rising into the night sky on a

 cone of whitehot fire.

 "Jesus Christff"...he swore over the radio, "the

 bastards have launched one."

 "Lock it up, Bootsea"...Stiff screamed, still on

 the radio, although he thought he was on the intercom.

 "Lock it up and we'll shoot an AMRAAM."...The

 acronym stood for advanced medium-range

 air-to-air missile.

 Boots was trying. The problem was that the ballistic

 missile was essentially stationary hi relation to the

 earth. It was accelerating upward, of course, but its

 velocity over the ground was close to zero just now. The

 designers of the F-14 weapons system did not

 envision that the crew would want to shoot missiles at

 stationary targets, so Boots was having his troubles.

 Frustrated, he snarled at Stiff, "Go to heat,

 goddamnit. Shoot a "winder at that

 exhaust."

 "A 'winder ain't gonna dent that fucking

 thingea"...Stiff replied, his logic impeccable. He was

 on the ICS now. "We'll come up under it and shoot

 as it accelerates upward."

 "Okay! Okay!"

 And that is what he did. As the missile

 accelerated upward, Stiff Hardwick kept his

 nose down, punched the burners full on and

 accelerated in toward the launch site, then pulled

 up to put the climbing, accelerating ballistic

 missile in front of him.

 Now Boots got a radar lock.

 The symbology on the HUD was alive, showing the

 target, the boresight angle, the drift

 angle....

 Stiff Hardwick lifted his thumb to fire the first

 AMRAAM. As he did an infrared missile from

 Carlos Cor-

 CUBA

 .

 rado's MiGo-29 went up his right tailpipe and

 blew a stabilator off the F-14.

 Jake Grafton heard all of it. "A missile

 is in the air! Just came out of silo

 oneff"...was the shout over the radio.

 He picked up the red telephone, the direct

 satellite connection with the White House.

 "Mr. President, I don't know what happened,

 but apparently the Cubans have launched one."

 The president must have heard the shouts over the net the

 same as Jake did. His question was, "What is the

 target?"

 Jake had the targets memorized. "It came out of

 silo one, sir. The target is Atlanta."

 "Thank you, Admiralea"...the president said

 mechanically, and hung up.

 When Toad Tarkington came to, the night was

 quiet. He was lying on cool earth, the sky above

 was dark... and there was a marine standing over him with his

 mouth moving.

 He was deaf. He had lost his hearing.

 Toad sat up, fell over, forced himself into a

 sitting po caret sition again. He ached all over,

 every muscle and tendon screamed in protest. But he

 was alive.

 He got to his feet, swaying. The marine helped

 steady him. .

 The barn was right there beside him.

 He pulled his pistol, staggered for the

 entrance.

 The interior was a shambles, the stench nearly unbearable

 from bodies fried and seared by the exhaust of the

 missile.

 Toad pulled boards out of the way to get to the open

 door that led down to the control room.

 The lights were still on. Using a palm on one wall

 to steady himself, he descended the stair.

 The old man was still sitting at the console, still wearing

 the tie around his wrists.

 He looked at Toad dispassionately.

 "You bastardea"...Toad said. He said the words but he

 could barely hear them. "You foul, evil old man."

 A young marine who had followed Toad down the

 stairs grabbed the white-haired old man, shoved

 him toward the stairs. "Get going, you old fart!

 Upstairs,-upstairs."

 Tarkington sagged to his knees on the floor, then

 stretched out. He was so tired....

 Boots VonRauenzahn pulled the ejection

 handle, and both he and Stiff Hardwick were launched

 from Showtime One Oh Nine a fraction of a second

 apart.

 Stiff got his wits about him as he hung in his

 parachute harness in the night sky. He could

 see the ballistic missile accelerating into the

 skyit was now a bright spot of light amid the starsand

 he could see the burning wreckage of his Tomcat as

 it fluttered toward the ground.

 He couldn't see the MiGo-29 that had shot him

 down. He could hear him though, a rumble that muffled the

 fading roar of the ballistic missile heading for

 space.

 What he didn't know was that Carlps Corrado had

 decided that his fuel state didn't allow him to jab

 the Americans anymore this night. He was on his

 way back to Cienfuegos. With his radar off.

 The SPY-IB radar aboard

 Hue City

 acquired the rising ballistic missile as it rose

 over the rim of the earth and transmitted the information

 by datalink to

 Guilford Courthouse,

 which picked up the missile on its own radar

 seconds later.

 Hue City's

 tactical action officer (Tao) in the Combat

 Control Center reached out and pushed the squawk-box

 button for the bridge, notifying her captain.

 "Sir, we have a possible ATBM threat,

 bearing one hundred seventy-five degrees

 true."...An ATBM was ah antitactical

 ballistic missile threat.

 The information from the SPY-IB radar was fed into the

 Aegis weapons system, which used the radar to control

 SM-2 missiles. The TAO waited for the

 computer to present the specifics of the target's

 trajectory.

 Her orders were to shoot down any missiles

 launched from Cuba over the Florida Straits.

 To do that, she would use the latest version of the SM-2

 missile, of which her ship carried eight.

 Guilford Courthouse

 also carried eight of these weapons, which had an

 extraordinary envelope. They could fly as far as

 300 nautical mites and as high as

 400,000 feet, about 66 nautical miles.

 The ballistic missile that was flying now was still

 climbing and accelerating. The trick was to shoot it

 over the Florida Straits before it got out of the

 SM-2 envelope.

 The captain was on the squawk box. "You may

 fire anytimeea"...the old man said.

 The TAO was Lieutenant (junior grade)

 Melinda Robinson. Her mother had wanted

 her to be a dancer and her father wanted her to take up

 law, his profession, but she chose the navy, confounding

 them both.

 Just now she concentrated on the computer presentations

 on the large, 42-inch by 42-inch console in front

 of her. . 'Two missilesea"...Robinson ordered.

 She was tempted to fire four, but the Cubans might

 launch more ballistic missiles, so she couldn't

 afford to run out of ammo.

 "Fire oneea"...she said.

 The SM-2 Tactical Aegis LEAP

 (lightweight exoatmospheric projectile)

 missile roared from the vertical launcher in front

 of the ship's bridge in a blaze of fire.

 Two seconds later a second missile roared

 after the first.

 Guilford Courthouse

 also fired two missiles.

 The solid fuel third-stage boosters of the

 SM-2 missiles lifted them through the bulk of the

 atmosphere, and finally separated at an altitude

 of 187,000 feet. The second stages ignited

 now, lifting the interceptor missiles higher and

 higher.

 At 300,000 feet the second stage

 of the missile pitched

 over and ejected the nose cone of the missile,

 exposing the infrared sensor of the kinetic-energy

 kill vehicle. The motor continued to burn for

 another sixteen seconds, carrying the kill

 vehicle higher and still faster. At 370,000 feet

 the kill vehicle was aligned by its GPS'-AIDED

 inertial unit and was ejected from the missile.

 Tracking the target now at 375,000 feet of

 altitude, the kill vehicle homed in on the

 ballistic missile's final stage at 6,000

 miles per hour.

 And hit it.

 The second missile missed by a hundred feet,

 the third struck a piece of the target missile,

 and the fourth missed by seven feet.

 "Admiral Grafton,

 Hue City

 reports the ballistic missile was destroyed over

 the Straits."

 Jake picked up the telephone to the White House

 and waited for someone to. answer.

 "Hue City,

 an Aegis cruiser, reports the Cuban

 missile was destroyed over the Straits."

 The president didn't say anything, but Jake could

 feel his relief. When he did speak, he sounded

 tired. "How many warheads are still in those

 missiles?"

 "Only one left, sir. Number four. There are

 no Cubans there but the marines are having trouble

 getting the warhead out of the missile."

 "Are you destroying the missiles when they are

 sanitized?"

 "Yes, sir. A magnesium flare ignited near

 the nose cone. The heat melts it, then finally

 ignites the solid fuel and causes an explosion

 in the silo."

 "You destroyed the warhead manufacturing

 facility?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "All that's left is the lab at the university?"

 "That's correct."

 "I want it destroyed, Admiral."

 'There will be casualties, sir, American and

 Cuban. That

 thing is smack in the middle of downtown

 Havana."..."...I understand that. Destroy it.""...We'll

 do it tomorrow nightea"...Jake Grafton said.

 Toad Tarkington found Rita putting a

 bandage on her copilot, Crash Wade, who had

 smashed his face into the instrument panel when their

 Osprey crashed. Half the marines aboard had

 been injured, but by some miracle only two were

 killed. The Osprey was a total loss.

 Toad put his hands on Rita's shoulders. She

 turned and he saw a large goose-egg bump on

 her forehead, one already turning purple. One of her

 eyes was also black and slightly swollen.

 He knelt beside her. "How's your head?"

 "I'm okay. Didn't even knock me out."

 "And Crash?"

 "The wound that's bleeding is pulpyI think his skull

 is smashed. He doesn't seem to recognize me

 or anybody."

 When she had Wade's wounds bandaged, she and Toad

 walked over to a tree and sat down. "Somebody said

 a MiGo shot us down, Toad. Cannon holes

 all over the right engine nacelle. I couldn't save

 it."

 She was so tired. When he leaned back against the

 tree she put her head down in his lap.

 By dawn Jake Grafton had five biological

 warheads locked up aboard

 United States;

 five intermediate-range ballistic missiles

 had been melted and burned in their silos; and every

 uniformed American and flyable military aircraft

 was out of Cuba. It had been a tight squeeze.

 Over half the SuperCobra helicopters lacked

 the fuel to return across the Florida Straits

 to Key West, nor was there room for them on the

 decks of U. S. ships off the Cuban coast.

 More fuel in flexible bladders was flown in from

 Kearsarge.

 The choppers were refueled, then launched for Key

 West. Four of the SuperCobras had been shot

 down, and one had suffered so much battle damage it

 was unsafe to fly and had to be destroyed.

 Prowlers and Hornets armed with HARM missiles

 continued to patrol over central Cuba all night,

 ready to attack any radar that came on the air.

 Above them F-14's cruised back and forth, ready

 to engage any bogey brave enough to-take to the sky.

 Several Cuban Army units probed gently at

 the marines guarding the silo sites while they

 prepared to withdraw, but a few bursts of machine-gun

 fire and mortar shells from the marines were enough

 to discourage further attention. The marines eventually

 disengaged and pulled out unmolested.

 When he landed his MiGo-29 at Cienfuegos,

 Major Carlos Corrado found that he couldn't

 get fuel. Two cruise missiles had

 destroyed the fuel trucks and electrical pumping

 unit; all fueling would have to be done by hand, a slow,

 labor-intensive process. Disgusted, Corrado

 walked to the

 nearest bar in town, where he was a regular, and

 proceeded to get drunk, his usual evening routine.

 By dawn he was passed out in his bunk in the

 barracks, sleeping it off.

 In Havana the next morning, Alejo Vargas

 summoned the senior officers of the Cuban Army,

 Navy, and Air Force to the presidential palace

 for a verbal hiding.

 "Cowards, fools, traitorsea"...he raged, so

 infuriated he quivered. "We had them in the palm

 of our hand, and all we had to do was make a

 fist.

 A red-handed apprehension of the American pirates

 would have brought the applause and respect of the Cuban

 people. A haul of American prisoners in uniform

 would have given us instant credibility.

 This

 was our chance."

 "Senor Presidente,

 the troops would not obey. They refused to attack.

 When the troops refuse to obey direct orders,

 what would you have us do?"

 "Shoot some generalsea"...Vargas snapped. "Shoot

 some colonels. Scared men fight best."

 "If we shot the generals and colonels the men would

 shoot usea"...General Alba explained, and he meant

 it. "The Americans are too well equipped,

 too well trained, too well armed. Their

 firepower is overwhelming. To fight them toeto-toe

 would be suicidal, and the men know that."

 Alba's logic was unassailable. To complain now that

 the Cuban Army, Navy, and Air Force did not

 do what he, Vargas, knew they could not do was

 illogical and selfdefeating. No military force

 on the planet could whip the Americans in a stand-up

 fight, which was precisely why he had spent the last

 three years developing a biologicalwarfare

 capability.

 Temper tantrums will get me no place,

 Vargas reminded himself, and willed himself back under

 control. He sat down at his desk, made a

 gesture to the others to seat themselves.

 "Gentlemen, we must move forward. I have

 trust and confidence in you, and I hope you have the same

 in me.

 You are of course correctwe cannot overcome the

 Americans militarily. We must outwit them

 to prevail. With your help, it still can be done."

 They sat looking at him expectantly.

 "The laboratory where the biological agent for the

 warheads was created is in the science building of the

 University of Havana. Last night the

 Americans destroyed the warhead-manufacturing

 facility and our six operational ballistic

 missiles. All the American cruise

 missiles, the airplanes, the assault troops

 were employed to that end. Tonight the Americans will try

 to destroy the laboratory."

 "Why did they not attack the lab last

 night"..."...Alba asked.

 "You are the military manyou tell me. Perhaps they

 lacked sufficient assets, perhaps they did not have

 political support to create massive amounts of

 Cuban casualties or sustain significant

 American casualtiesI do not know. The most

 likely explanation is that they were afraid of

 inadvertently releasing biological agents.

 Whatever, the lab is still intact and capable

 of producing polio viruses in sufficient

 quantity to supply a weapons program. The

 minds directing the American military effort will not

 ignore that laboratory."

 "Senor Presidente,

 what would you have us do?"

 Alejo Vargas smiled. He leaned forward in his

 chair and began explaining.

 'Tell me what happenedea"...Jake Grafton said

 to Toad Tarkington when Toad got back aboard

 the carrier. The sky was gray in the east by then, and

 Toad was filthy and bone tired.

 A stretcher team from the ship's hospital met the

 Osprey on the flight deck and took Rita and

 Crash Wade below for examination.

 Toad told his boss everything he thought lie would

 want to know about the battle around silo one, about the

 missile rising, holding on to the tiny open access

 port, kicking off as the missile went through the barn

 roof, falling....

 He didn't tell Jake t.he was so scared he

 thought he was going to die, and he left out how he

 felt when they told him Rita had been shot down

 just in front of the barn. He didn't mention how he

 felt when he realized she was alive,

 bruised up but alive. He didn't have to tell

 him, because Jake Grafton could read all that in his

 face.

 The admiral listened, looking very tired and sad, and

 said nothing. Just nodded. Then patted him on the

 shoulder and sent him to take a shower and get a few

 hours" sleep.

 The young CIA officer, Tommy Carmellini, sat

 in the dirty-shirt wardroom with a stony face, his

 jaw set. Chance was dead and he didn't want

 to talk about it.

 He talked about the mission when Jake Grafton

 asked, however, told the admiral how it had gone,

 assured him' that all the cultures in the building

 had been destroyed.

 "The problem is that the bastards may have cultures

 stashed anyplace. Vargas may have a potful under his

 bed, just in case."

 "Yesea"...Jake Grafton said, "I understand."

 He did understand. To be absolutely certain of

 eradicating all the poliomyelitis virus in

 Cuba, he would need to burn the whole island to a

 cinder.

 Jake went to his stateroom and tried to get a

 few hours" sleep himself.

 Tired as he was, sleep wouldn't come. He

 tossed and turned as he thought about the battle just ended

 and the one still to come. What had he learned from last

 night's battle?

 What could go wrong tonight?

 After an hour of frustration, he took a long, hot

 shower. This time when he lay down he dozed off.

 Two hours later he was wide awake. He put

 on a clean uniform and headed for his office.

 Toad was already there huddled with Gil Pascal.

 "Rita's okayea"...he told Jake. "Crash

 Wade didn't make it. Amazing, isn't it?

 One dead, one just bruised."

 "Can Rita fly tonight"..."...Jake asked.

 Tarkington swallowed hard, nodded once.

 "She's the best Osprey pilot we've

 gotea"...Jake said. "She's got the flight if she

 wants it."

 "She'd kill me if I asked you to leave her

 behind."

 "She probably would, and you such a handsome young stud.

 What a loss to the world that would be."

 "The Osprey that is bringing the survivor from

 Hue City

 will be here in twenty minutes. I'll bring

 him to your cabin."

 "Hector Sedano's brother?"

 "That's correct, sir. And the message said he

 wants to go back to Cuba."

 Maximo Sedano parked his car on the pier so he

 wouldn't have to carry his gear very far. Scuba tanks,

 wet suit, flippers, weight belt, mask, he

 had the whole wardrobe.

 He got all that stuff aboard the boat, checked the

 fuel, then cast off.

 The gold was in Havana Harbor; he was sure of

 it. He had a chart that he had laid off in grids,

 and he had labeled each grid with a number that

 reflected a probability that he thought reasonable.

 The area off the main shipping piers didn't seem

 promising, nor did the busy areas by the fishing

 piers. The area off the private docks where

 Fidel had kept his boat seemed to Maximo to be

 the most likely, so that was where he would look first.

 He took the boat to the center of the most promising

 area and anchored it.

 It was inevitable that people would see him, so he had told

 everyone who asked comt he was studying old

 shipwrecks in Havana Harbor. He knew enough

 about that dissubject to make it sound

 plausi85 could talk about the American

 battleship

 Maine

 and three treasure galleons that went on the rocks

 here in the harbor during a hurricane.

 If he found it, he would not let on. If he found

 the gold, he would leave it where it was until he could

 come back for it with paid men and the proper equipment.

 If.

 Well, every man needs a dream, he reflected, and

 this was his. Better this than dying defending a

 ballistic-missile silo. Those fools.

 The gold was near. He knew it. Sitting here on

 the boat he could feel its power.

 God damn you, Fidel.

 Juan Sedano, @lright-brace 1 Ocho, got out

 of the Osprey with a look of wonder on his face. The

 airplane, the aircraft carrier, the jets and

 noise and hundreds of foreigners, few of whom

 spoke his languageit was quite a lot for a young man

 who had never before been out of Cuba.

 He got out of the Osprey wearing a set of navy

 dungarees, a white T-shirt, and a

 Hue City

 baseball cap, and carrying a pillowcase

 containing clothes, underwear, toilet items, and

 souvenirs given him by the men and women of

 Hue City,

 everything from photographs of the ship to COULD'S and

 Playboy

 magazines.

 Toad Tarkington met Ocho on the flight deck

 and led the taliea"...broad-shouldered young man into the

 island and up the ladder to the flag bridge, where

 Jake Grafton and an interpreter, a

 lieutenant fighter pilot of Latin descent, were

 waiting. Jake took Ocho and the lieutenant

 into his at-sea cabin, where the three of them found

 chairs.

 "When did you leave Cuba"..."...Jake Grafton

 asked Ocho after the introductions.

 "Six or seven days agoea"...the lieutenant said,

 "he isn't sure. He lost track of the days at

 sea."

 "Tell him that Fidel Castro is dead, that his

 brother Hector is in prison."

 The Spanish-speaking junior officer did so.

 Ocho's reaction was unexpected. Tears streamed

 down his face. "He asked me not to leave Cuba.

 He must have known that Fidel was dying, that

 something was happening. I left anyway."

 He wiped at the tears, embarrassed. "I love

 my brother. He is my idol, a true man who

 believes in something larger

 than himself. I cry because I am ashamed of myself, of

 what I have done. He asked me not to go and I

 refused to listen."

 "Tell me about Hectorea"...Jake Grafton

 asked gently.

 The admiral had expected to spend five minutes

 with the boy, but the five minutes became fifteen, then

 a half hour, then an hour. Ocho told of going

 to meetings with Hector, of the speeches he made, of

 his many friends, of antagonizing the regular priests

 and the bureaucrats while he spread the message of a

 coming new day to anyone who would listen, and many did.

 Jake gave Ocho part of his attention while he

 thought about the lab in the science building in the

 University of Havana.

 When Ocho finally began to run dry, Jake picked

 up the telephone and called Toad. "I'm in my

 at-sea cabinea"...he said, "Have the guys in the

 television studio play that tape we downloaded from

 the satellite this morning on the television in this

 stateroom. No place else."

 "Yessir."

 Toad called back in three minutes. "Channel

 two, Admiral."

 Jake turned on the television.

 In a few seconds Fidel Castro came on the

 screen. He was obviously a sick man. He was

 sitting behind a desk, wearing a green fatigue

 shirt. -

 "Citizens of Cuba, I speak to you today for the last

 time. I am fatally ill...."

 The young lieutenant translated.

 "I wish to spend a few minutes telling you of my

 dream for Cuba, my dream of what our nation can

 become in the years ahead. It is imperative that

 we end bur political isolation, that we join the

 family of nations as a full-fledged member.

 To make this transition a reality will require

 major changes on our part, and a new political

 vision...."

 Jake Grafton moved closer to the television,

 set, adjusted his glasses, and studied the image of

 Fidel Castro. The man

 was perspiring heavily, obviously in pain, and every so

 often he would move slightly, as if seeking a more

 comfortable position.

 "For years I have watched with admiration and

 respectea"...Fidel continued, "as Hector Sedano

 moved among our people, making friends, telling them of his

 vision for Cuba, preparing them for the changes and

 sacrifices that will be necessary in the days to come."

 Fidel winced, paused, and took a sip of water

 from a glass sitting nearby. Then he continued:

 "We as a nation do not have to give up our

 revolutionary commitment to social justice

 to participate as full-fledged members of the world

 economy. We would be traitors to the heroes of the

 revolution and ourselves were we to do so. In the past few

 years the Church, in which so many Cubans believe,

 has come to understand that one cannot be a true Christian

 without an active commitment to social justice, the

 commitment that every loyal Cuban carries in his breast

 as his birthright. The Church has changed to join us.

 Now we also must change.

 "The time has come for this government to renounce

 communism, to embrace private enterprise, to act

 as a referee to ensure that every Cuban has a decent

 job that pays a living wage and every enterprise pays

 its fair share of taxes..."

 In less than a minute Fidel reached his

 peroration:

 "Hector Sedano is the man I believe best

 able to lead our nation into this future."

 The tape ended anticlimactically a few

 seconds later. A tired, haggard Fidel

 spoke to someone off-camera, said, "That's enough."

 Jake Grafton reached out, turned off the

 television.

 Ocho was stunned. "I thought Fidel was dead!"

 "He is dead. He made this tape before he died."

 "That was not a live performance?"

 "No. A film, a videotape."

 "And you have itff"...Ocho's eyes were wide in amaze-

 STEPHEN COONTS

 ment. "They must have played the videotape on

 television, and you copied it. But if it has been

 on television in Havana, why is Hector in

 prison?"

 "The tape has never been on televisionea"...Jake

 said. "As far as I know, you are the very first Cuban

 to see it since it was made."

 Ocho stared, trying to understand. Finally he asked,

 "What are you going to do with it?"

 "I was wonderingea"...Jake Grafton said, "if you

 would take it back to the lady who gave it to us. I

 believe she is your aunt by marriage,

 Mercedes Sedano?"

 "Mercedesff"...Ocho gaped. "She was Fidel's

 mistress. Why did she give you the tape?"

 "You will have to ask her. Will you return the tape

 to her?"

 "Of course. When do you want me to do this?""...This

 evening, I think. By the way, are you

 hungry?""...Oh, yes. I like the hamburger.

 Muy bueno."

 Jake and the lieutenant took Ocho to the flag

 wardroom for lunch. Ocho talked of baseball, of

 Cuba, of his brother Hector, and Hector's

 dreams for a free Cuba. He talked even with his

 mouth full, so the lieutenant who was translating

 didn't get much to eat. Jake let the young

 Cuban talk.

 After lunch the admiral asked for Tommy

 Carmellini, so Toad Tarkington went looking for

 him. Carmellini was asleep. He smelled of

 liquor, which Toad ignoredafter all, the man was

 a civilian.

 When Toad got Carmellini into the admiral's

 office, he asked the chief petty officer to bring,

 coffee, which Carmellini accepted gratefully.

 "I've been thinking about your commentea"...Jake

 Grafton said.

 "What comment"..."...Carmellini asked between sips of hot

 black coffee.

 "About Vargas having jugs of cultures under his

 bed."

 "Umm."...Carmellini drank more coffee. When he

 saw that the admiral was expecting him to say more, he

 shrugged. "That was a flippant comment. I'm

 sorry."

 Jake Grafton scratched his chin. "I thought it

 was... profound, in a way."

 "How's that?"

 "We can't burn the island down."

 "That would be impracticalea"...Carmellini agreed.

 "We'd have eleven million Cubans to house and

 feed afterwards."

 "So where does that leave us?"

 Tommy Carmellini searched the faces of the naval

 officers.

 "There's a presidential directive against

 assassinating heads of stateea"...the CIA man said

 cautiously.

 "I have seen references to such a directiveea"...Jake

 Grafc ton said, "though I haven't read the thing."

 'Trust me. It exists."

 "Friend, I believe you. That's sound public

 policy and I don't have anything like that in mind. Our

 objective is the lab and the cultures: that's more

 than enough to keep us busy. You've been there before and know

 the layout. Will you go back with us tonight?"

 Tommy Carmellini nodded slowly. "I

 appreciate your asking, Admiral. I'd be

 delighted."

 "We are planning a military assault. It is

 going to be a holy mess, I think. Vargas will

 probably ambush us on the way in or

 booby-trap the lab to blow up"...af we've fought our

 way in there. Maybe both."

 "He's that kind of guyea"...Carmellini agreed.

 "Hector Sedano's brother is aboard ship.

 He was-picked up floating in the ocean north of

 Cuba two days ago after the boat he was on

 sank. Everyone else aboard drowned or was a

 victim of shark attack. This kid is either

 Hector's brother or a liar of Clintonian

 dimensions. They call him El Ocho. I want you

 to talk to him, feel him out. He impressed me as

 an extremely competent, capable young man. Talk

 to him, then come back and tell me what you think."

 STEPHEN COONTS

 Toad Tarkington was in the Air Intelligence

 Center studying satellite images and radar

 images from an E-3 Sentry AW ACS

 plane flying a race track pattern over the

 Florida Straits. The University of Havana

 science building was at the center of all the images.

 "What's happening in Havana"..."...Jake asked.

 "The streets are full of peopleea"...Toad said.

 "Especially around La Cabana Prison. Do you

 think they are there to break Hector out?"

 "They're there because he isea"...Jake muttered, and used

 a magnifying glass to study the infrared images

 of the science building.

 Toad pointed at the picture with the tip of a pen.

 'Tankea"...he said. "Vargas is going to be waiting

 with his guns loaded."

 "Is he taking cultures out of the building? Do

 any of the specialists in Maryland have any opinions

 on that?"

 "No one has seen any milk trucks. He'd be

 a fool to haul that stuff through Havana in a

 regular truck."

 "Desperate men do foolish thingsea"...Jake

 Grafton said, and laid the magnifying glass

 back on the table.

 As the sun was setting, Jake received a call from the

 White House. "I just watched that tape of

 Fidelea"...the president said over the encrypted

 circuit.

 "It's impressive. We are going to deliver it

 to the woman who gave it to us, see if she can get it

 on television tonight."

 "Maybe that will pan outea"...the president said. "The

 American Interest Section in Havana says that

 the crowd outside the prison is restless. Local

 police are nowhere in sight."

 A wave of relief swept over Jake

 Grafton. "That's the best news I've heard

 today, sir."

 "I'm really worried about those viruses."

 "Sir, we'll do what we can."

 "Just what are you going to do, Admiral?"

 "Improvise as I go along. Do you really want

 to know?""...I guess notea"...the president said heavily.

 Alejo Vargas was in the office area across the

 hallway from the lab in the University of Havana

 science building when General Alba came in with

 old General Rafael Zerquera, the titular head

 of the Cuban armed forces, the chief of staff. The

 old man was at least eighty-five,

 probably a bit moreea'and he walked with a cane.

 With the two military men were several ministers,

 including Ferrara and the mayor of Havana. Behind them

 were six young officers, all wearing sidearms.

 "Sefior Presidents,"

 General Zerquera began, and looked around the room

 for a chair. He found one and his aide helped him

 to it, though Vargas had not invited anyone to sit.

 The general looked around slowly, taking everything in.

 Through the window one could see the air lock across the

 hallway that led to the sealed laboratory.

 "I called your office, called the Ministry of

 Interior they could not tell me where you were. The army

 knew, however."

 Vargas said nothing.

 "I saw a missile launched last nighteveryone in

 central Cuba saw or heard it."...The old man

 shook his head, remembering. "Weapons to destroy

 cities, kill millionsFidel knew that if the

 Yanquis ever found out about the missiles, they would

 seek to destroy them. He was right. And he knew that

 if the missiles were ever used on the United

 States ..."

 Zerquera cocked his head, looked at Vargas.

 "So you launched at least one, and it never

 reached its target."

 "What's done is doneea"...Vargas snapped. "How

 do you know the missile did not reach its target?"

 "Because we are still aliveea"...Zerquera said. "If you

 think the Yanquis will not retaliate, you are a

 dangerous fool."

 Vargas had to restrain himself. Zerquera had many

 STEPHEN COONTS

 friends; it would be impossible to stop tongues from wagging

 if he were shot here, in front of these junior

 officers.

 "And then there is this labea"...Zerquera continued blandly,

 gesturing at the window glass and the laboratory beyond.

 "Here you grow the poison to murder Cuba. If you

 use this on the Americans, they will retaliate.

 If it escapes, Cubans will die horribly."

 Vargas took a deep breath before he answered.

 "We are moving the cultures."

 "Moving them where?"

 "To a place where they will be safe."

 "Excuse me,

 Senor Presidente,

 for my failure to understand. What other place in

 Cuba has the sealed ventilation system and

 biological alarms and other safeguards

 that exist here?"

 'There are none."

 "So there is no place safer than this building."

 "Tonight the Americans will probably attack this

 building in order to destroy the cultures. They

 burned several facilities last night that contained

 cultures, and they will probably burn this one. I

 am not a prophet, yet I make that prediction

 with a great degree of confidence."

 "The president of the United States can destroy this

 building and everything it contains with a telephone

 callea"...General Zerquera said softly, "and there is

 nothing on earth we can do about it. In my opinion the

 viruses should be destroyed, if it can be safely

 done. An escape of the polio viruses from whatever

 containers they are in will kill vast numbers of our people

 unless the containers are housed in a specially prepared

 place, like this laboratory."

 Vargas looked exasperated. "You exceed your

 authority, General, when you"

 Zerquera stopped him with a hand. "No, no, no!

 You

 exceed

 your

 authority when you endanger the Cuban people in

 order to gratify your ambition."

 "Do not cross me, old manea"...Vargas snarled.

 "I am not going to interfere in politics, Alejo.

 I never

 have. The Cuban people will decide who they want to lead

 themneither you nor the exiles nor Fidel nor the

 president of the United States can dictate who the

 Cuban people will choose. For forty years they wanted

 Fidel, a loquacious eccentric with much personal

 charm and too little wisdom, in my opinion. Yet a

 new day has come."

 Vargas gestured angrily. "These others have brought

 you here with lies about me."

 General Rafael Zerquera got to his feet.

 He leaned on his cane, examined every face, and ended

 with his eyes on Vargas. "A nation matures much like

 a man does. Youth makes mistakes: with-age and

 experience comes wisdom."

 "You waste our timeea"...Vargas said through his teeth.

 "You will not remove the cultures from this building. The

 risk to the population is too great."

 Vargas stepped forward to slap the old fool, but one

 of the aides stopped him with the barrel of a pistol

 pointed right at his face.

 "Another step,

 Senor Presidente,"

 the young man said, "and you are dead."

 Zerquera turned and headed for the door. He went through

 it, then took the elevator up to street level.

 The civilians followed him. Alba and the young

 officers stayed.

 "You, Alba? You have betrayed me?"

 "I obey my conscienceea"...Alba said, and posted his

 men in front of the lab.

 "Kill anyone who tries to remove anything from that

 roomea"...the general told them.

 As the last of the daylight faded, a helicopter from

 USS

 United States

 crossed the southern shore of the island of Cuba flying

 northwest. The helicopter stayed low, just above the

 treetops. In the cockpit both the pilot and

 copilot were wearing night-vision goggles. Behind them

 in the bay sat Tommy Carmellini and Ocho

 Sedano. A .50-caliber machine gun was mounted

 in the open door. The gunner wearing night-vision

 goggles sat on the jump seat, looking out.

 Overhead EA-6But Prowlers and FirstA-18

 Hornets with their HARM missiles ready crossed

 the coast at the same time. These

 airplanes were there to attack any Cuban radars

 that came on the air tonight. So far, all was quiet.

 Above the Prowlers and Hornets, F-14

 Tomcats patrolled back and forth.

 One of the F-14 pilots was Stiff Hardwick.

 He and his RIO had ejected last night almost on

 top of silo one, so they had ridden home in an

 Osprey. The RIO, Boots VonRauenzahn,

 sustained a fracture to the left arm; he was

 sporting a cast tonight and couldn't fly. The junior

 RIO in the squadron, Sailor Karnow, drew

 the short straw and was sitting behind Stiff tonight.

 Stiff had had a hell of a bad day. First the

 shoot-down by a Cuban fighter pilot, then he

 endured a day of razzing from his peers, all of whom

 had a great laugh at his tale of woe, then tonight he

 had to fly with Sailor, a quiet woman who never

 had much to say around the testosterone-charged ready

 room.

 *

 On the way out to the plane this evening, Boots had

 put his good arm around the shoulders of his pal, Stiff.

 "Sailor will take good care of you. Don't fret

 the program, shipmate."

 Stiff snarled something crude in reply and

 stomped off.

 He was the sole victim of the entire Cuban Air

 Force fighter pilots generally ignored

 helicopters, so the Osprey and choppers destroyed

 by the MiGo pilot didn't register on Stiff's

 radar screen. He was never, ever going to be able

 to live down the ignominy of last night. His

 squadron mates would probably tattoo a

 ribald memorial of his disgrace on his ass some

 night when he was drunk or chisel it on his

 tombstone. His skipper had almost put somebody

 else in his place on the flight schedule tnStiff

 begged shamelessly: "You gotta let me flyea"...he

 sobbed, "give me a chance to redeem myself."

 "You aren't going to do anything stupid out there, are

 you"..."...the skipper asked, his voice tinged with

 suspicion.

 "Oh, no, sirea"...Stiff assured the man.

 So here he was, off to slay the dragon if he

 came out of his lair. And that goddamn Cuban

 fighter jock was probably still swilling free beer

 on the tale of the damned Yanqui who pulled up in

 front of him and lit his afterburners.

 Actually Carlos Corrado hadn't thought much about

 his aerial victory. He awoke in the

 early afternoon with a blinding headache and treated himself

 to his usual hangover regimena cup of coffee,

 a cigar, and a puke.

 He felt a little better this evenin'g but thought he should

 forgo food. He would eat after he flew, he

 decided.

 The powers that be didn't call the base today, of

 course, because the telephone system was hors"...de

 combat. Alas, a desk-flying colonel drove

 down from Havana.

 "Please stay on the ground, Corrado. I would

 make that an order, but knowing you, you would disobey it.

 So I ask you, please do not fly tonight. Please do

 not allow yourself to be shot down. Please do not shame

 us."

 Carlos Corrado told the colonel where he could

 go and what he could do to himself when he got there.

 Tonight he sat on the concrete leaning up against a

 nose tire of his steed, which was parked between two gutted

 hangars. The troops had worked all day getting the

 MiGo-

 29 fueled, serviced, and armed. It was ready. Now

 all Corrado needed to know was where the Americans were

 and what they were up to. Of course there was no one

 to tell him.

 The walls of the hangars were still standing and magnified the

 sounds of the sky. As he chewed on his cigar butt,

 Corrado could hear jets running high. The growl

 was deep and faint.

 The planes were American, certainly, and they had

 fangs. If he went heedlessly blasting into the sky,

 his life was going to come to an abrupt, violent end.

 Where were they going?

 Havana? He thought they would go there last night and

 they never got near the place.

 Of course, the headquarters colonel knew nothing.

 At least, he had nothing to say. Except that

 Corrado was a fool. Only a fool would

 attack the American war machine head-on, he

 said.

 Corrado got out a match and lit the butt. He

 puffed, coughed, chewed on the soggy mess.

 Well, hell, we're all fools, really.

 Does any of this matter? And if so, to whom?

 Rita Moravia settled the V-22 onto the

 flight deck of the

 United States

 and watched as Jake Grafton came trotting out from

 the island. Toad and a dozen marines carrying

 aircraft flares followed him. The

 marines had their rifles slung over their shoulders and

 wore their Kevlar Helmets. Under the red lights

 shining down from the ship's island superstructure, the

 shadowy procession looked like something, from a dream, a

 vision without substance.

 She felt the substance as the men trooped up the

 ramp in the back of the plane and the vibrations reached

 her through the fuselage. Soon Jake Grafton was

 looking over her shoulder.

 "Toad says you're okay. Now tell me the

 truth."

 "I'm okay, Admiral."...She turned and flashed

 him a grin. The disbruise on her forehead was yellow

 and blue now.

 "Whenever you're readyea"...Jake said, and strapped himself

 into the crew chief's seat.

 It was a rare summer night, with a clean, clear

 sky, visibility exceeding twenty miles. A

 series of rain showers had swept the Florida

 Straits earlier in the evening, cleaning out the haze and

 crud.

 Major Jack O'Brian sat in the cockpit of

 his F-117 looking at the cities below as he

 flew down the west coast of Florida, out to sea a

 little so as to avoid airplanes on the

 airway. O'Brian had one radio tuned to his

 squadron's tactical frequency, which he was

 merely monitoring in case the mission was scrubbed

 at the last minute, and on the other he listened

 to Miami Center. He wasn't talking to the air

 traffic controller either. His transponder was off.

 He was cruising at 36,500 feet, 500 feet

 above the flight level, so he should miss any

 airliner that he failed to see. Of course, an

 airliner going under him would not see him because his plane

 was midnight black and the exterior position lights

 were off.

 The stealth fighter was also invisible to the controller at

 Miami Center, who had his radar configured to received

 coded replies from transponders. Even if the

 controller chose to look at actual radar

 returns, the skin paints, he would not have seen the

 F-117, which had been designed to be invisible

 to radars at long distances.

 This feature also hid the stealth fighter from the

 American early-warning radars that were sweeping these

 skies looking for outlaw aircraft that might be

 aloft in the night, such as drug smugglers. And in just

 a few minutes it would

 hide it from Cuban radars probing the sky

 over the Florida Straits. If there were any.

 Completely unseen, a black ghost flitting through the

 night, Jack O'Brian's F-117 passed

 Tampa Bay and continued south toward Key West.

 It was flying at Mach .72 to conserve fuel. The

 fighter had tanked over Tallahassee and would

 tank again in just a few minutes over two hours

 near Tampa. But first, a little jaunt to Havana.

 Navigation was by global positioning system, GPS.

 The pilot had entered the coordinates of his destination

 into the computer before he even started the engines of his

 airplane, and now the computer and autopilot were

 taking him there. All he had to do was monitor the

 system, make sure everything functioned as it was

 designed to.

 O'Brian sucked on his oxygen mask, reached under

 it to scratch his nose, readjusted his flight

 gloves, and generally fidgeted around in his seat. He

 was nervouswho wouldn't be"...b quite confident. After all,

 there was very little danger as long as the aircraft's

 systems continued to work properly. The craft truly

 was invisible at night. Of course it did have a

 small infrared signature and could be seen by an

 enemy searching the skies with infrared detectors, but

 there was no reason to suspect the Cubans

 were doing any such thing.

 Barring a freak accident, like getting hit by a random

 unaimed artillery shell or having a midair with a

 civilian plane, the Cubans would never know the

 F-117 had even been around. Certainly they would

 never see it on radar or with the naked eye. ,

 The Cubans might get wise when and if he

 dropped some bombs, but even so, there was nothing they

 could do about an invisible bomber.

 The biggest risk, Jack O'Brian decided, was

 having a midair with one of the other three

 F-117's that were out here prowling around.

 The second plane was running twenty miles back

 in trail, a thousand feet above this one, and the others

 an equal

 distance up and back, all with their own hard

 altitudes. Jack glanced again at his altimeter,

 just to be sure.

 Key West came into view on schedule, a bit

 off to his left. The lights of the other Keys

 looked like a handful of pearls flung into the blackness

 of the night.

 Then Key West lay behind and the lights of Havana

 appeared ahead. Jack O'Brian reduced power

 and set up a descent.

 Angel One, the helicopter from

 United States,

 landed in the cane across the road from Dona Maria

 Sedano's house. Ocho got out of the chopper and

 walked across the road toward the house. Tommy

 Carmellini trailed along behind him.

 Mercedes was standing on the porch as Ocho walked up.

 They launched themselves at each other, hugged

 fiercely. Mercedes didn't even glance at

 Carmellini, who was dressed in a civilian shirt

 and trousers but had a pistol strapped to his waist.

 Mercedes kept her arm around Ocho, took him into the

 house where his mother was sitting in a chair.

 Carmellini sat on the porch, watched the occasional

 car and truck go by. The vehicles slowed, their

 passengers gawking at the idling helo, but they

 didn't stop.

 Soon Ocho came outside with Mercedes. She had

 the videotape in her hand. Ocho introduced

 Carmellini.

 "If the videotape is to have maximum effect, it

 should be aired immediatelyea"...Carmellini told Mercedes,

 who held the tape tightly with both hands.

 "We are going to get Hector out of

 prisonea"...Ocho said, anxious to explain.

 "We could take 'y to Havana television and leave

 you, if you wish."

 Mercedes nodded, so Ocho put his arm around her and

 led her to the helicopter. Dona Maria was visible

 in the door of her cottage; Ocho waved at her

 before he climbed into the helo.

 Jake Grafton used an infrared viewing scope

 to examine the streets of Havana. He was sitting

 in the copilot's seat of the V-22 Osprey, which

 Rita had racked over in a right bank, orbiting the

 downtown. The city was well litnot as well lit

 as an American city, but almost. The central core

 of the city was darkthe electrical power had yet to be

 restored.

 The area around the University of Havana seemed

 deserted. No tanks, no armored personnel

 carriers, no barricades, apparently no

 troops. The streets looked empty.

 Strange.

 Or maybe not so strange. Maybe the lab was

 empty, the viruses moved to God knows where.

 Everyone in Cuba seemed to be in the streets around

 La Cabana Prison; at least a hundred

 thousand people, Jake estimated. Bonfires burned in

 the streets near the prison, huge fires

 that appeared as bright spots of light on the infrared

 viewing scope.

 He looked for the antiaircraft guns which he knew

 were there. He found them, but at this altitude he

 couldn't see people around them. "Go lowerea"...he told

 Rita. "Two thousand feet."

 Still circling to the right, she eased the power and let the

 Osprey descend.

 Jake turned his attention to the prison, an island

 of darkness on the edge of the stricken city center. The

 main gate was an opening in a high masonry wall

 that surrounded the huge old stone fortress. The gate

 seemed to be closed, but at this altitude and

 angle, it was difficult to be sure. Immediately behind

 the gate sat a tankJake had seen enough of those

 planforms to be absolutely certain. Two more

 tanks sat in the courtyard ... and some

 automobiles. Jake adjusted the magnification

 on the infrared viewer. Now he could see

 individuals, walking, standing in knots, talking through

 the fenceyes, the main gate was closed.

 Two antiaircraft batteries sat beside the

 prison, old Soviet four-barreled ZPU'S with

 optical sights. They were use-

 less against fast movers but would be hell on

 helicopters.

 The roof of the prison was flat, and apparently

 empty. No. Correct that. Snipers on the

 corners. Damn!

 Jake checked the radio to ensure he was on the

 proper frequency, then keyed the mike. "Angel

 One, this is Battlestar One, where are you?"

 "Angel One's on its way to the television station

 to deliver a passenger."

 "Let me know when you lift off from there."

 "Roger that, Battlestar."

 "Night Owl Four Two, call your posit."

 Jack O'Brian in the F-l 17 replied,

 "Night Owl Four Two is overhead at ten."

 "La Cabana Prison is our object of

 interest tonight, Four Two. I want single bombs,

 all to stay within the walls. Can you do that?"

 "We can try, sir. You know the limitations on my

 equipment as well as I do."

 "Your best efforts. Lots of friendlies outside the

 wall. First target is the antiaircraft battery

 inside the prison walls on the north side. Do

 you see it?"

 "Wait."...Seconds ticked by.

 "Got it."

 'The second target is the antiaircraft

 battery on the south side."

 "Night Owl Four Four is on station at eleven

 thousand, Battlestar. Why don't we each run one

 of those targets? I'll take the north one."

 The two F-l 17 pilots discussed it and

 Jake approved.

 Jack O'Brian had several possible ways

 to drop the bombs he carried in the internal bomb

 bay. If he were bombing through a cloud deck or in

 rain or snow, he would release the unpowered weapon

 over the target and let it steer itself to the GPS

 bull's-eye through use of a GPS receiver, a

 computer, and a set of canards mounted on the nose of the

 weapon. Tonight, since the sky was reasonably clear,

 he would illumine the target with a laser beam while

 overflying it, and let the unpowered bomb fly itself to the

 laser-designated bull's-eye. If O'Brian

 could keep the laser beam directly on the spot he

 wished the bomb to hit, he should be able to achieve

 pinpoint, bomb-in-a-barrel accuracy.

 Once again O'Brian carefully checked his

 electronic countermeasures panel, which was dark.

 The Cubans were off the

 aii,

 which was comforting.

 Now he adjusted the focus of the infrared camera in

 the nose. The display blossomed slowly, continued

 to change as he got closer and the grazing angle

 increased.

 He could see the gun plainly owing to the camera's

 magnification. He sweetened the crosshairs just a

 touch as the airplane motored sedately toward the

 target, still cruising at ten thousand feet, and turned

 on the laser designator, which was slaved to the

 crosshairs.

 Jack O'Brian checked his watch. "Night Owl

 Four Two is thirty seconds from drop."

 "Four Four is a minute out."

 "Don't turn on your laser until you see my

 thing pop."

 "Roger."

 Armament panel set for one bomb, laser mode

 selected, laser designator on, master armament

 switch on, steady on the run-in heading,

 autopilot engaged, crosshairs steady on the

 targetno driftsystem into Attack. A tone

 sounded in his ears and was broadcast over the radio on

 the tactical frequency. O'Brian knew that

 several people were listening for that tone, including the

 pilot of the other F-117 Night Owl Four

 Four, Judy Kwiatkowski.

 He watched for unexpected wind drift. Not much

 tnwhat little wind there was was well within the capability

 of the bomb to handle.

 Counting down, the second hand on the clock on the

 instrument panel ticking ... The release marker

 marched down and he felt the thump as the bomb bay

 doors snapped open. Immediately thereafter the bomb was

 released, the tone stopped, then the doors closed

 again.

 With the bomb in the air, it was essential that the

 crosshairs on the laser designator stay

 precisely on the target because the bomb was guiding

 itself toward this spot of invisible light.

 He took manual control of the crosshairs,

 kept them right on the artillery piece beside the old

 fortress. ,

 The aspect angle of the target was changing, of

 course, as the airplane flew over it and beyond. Now

 it was behind the plane, the crosshairs right on the

 target.

 Then, suddenly, the antiaircraft artillery

 piece disappeared in a flash as the

 five-hundred-pound bomb struck it dead

 center.

 Thirty seconds later the gun on the south side

 of the building was hit by Judy Kwiatkowski's

 weapon.

 "Very good, Night Owlsea"...Battlestar said. "The

 next target is the tank nearest to the main gate.

 I think one bomb will discourage the tankers. Four

 Four, I want you to bomb the main gate. Tell

 me if you see it."

 "Four Four has the target."

 "How long until the weapons hit?"

 "Give us ten minutes to go out and make another

 run."

 'Ten minutes will do fineea"...Jake Grafton said,

 then turned to Rita.

 "After the bombs hit the tanks and main gate, I

 want you to land on the roof. The guys in back will go

 out shooting and take care of the snipers. Let me go

 talk to Eckhardt and Toad." Both officers were

 riding in the back of the Osprey with the grunts.

 Jake unstrapped and got out of the copilot's seat.

 In a moment'Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt

 climbed into the seat and used the infrared scope.

 "See the snipers"..."...the admiral asked. "I want

 you and your people to shoot them or capture them,

 whatever."

 "Yes, sir."...The colonel got out pf the seat.

 "Ten minutes, Rita. Start your clock."

 "Aye, aye, sirea"...Rita said, and began figuring

 the best way to approach the prison.

 * * *

 A man from the control tower ran to find Carlos

 Corrado and tell him that American aircraft were

 over Havana. The people in the tower heard the news on

 short-wave radio from headquarters.

 "Havana."

 Corrado threw away his cigar butt and got

 into his flying gear.

 Five minutes later he was taxiing. He didn't

 stop at the end of the runway to check the systems or,

 controls, but added power and stroked the burners. The

 big fighter responded like a thoroughbred race

 horse and lifted off after a short run.

 Of course he left his radar off.

 Still, the crew of the U.s. Air Force E-3

 Sentry over the Isle of Pines picked up a

 skin-paint return of the MiGo almost immediately.

 "Showtime One Oh Two, we got a bogey

 lifting off Cienfuegos, looks like he's on his

 way to Havana on the deck. Try

 to intercept. Over."

 Stiff Hardwick had been airborne for an hour

 and ten minutes. The recovery aboard

 United States

 would begin in exactly thirty-five minutes. This

 bogey was on the deck using fuel at a

 prodigious rate, and when Stiff came swooping

 down from 30,000 feet his fuel consumption would also

 go through the roof. Fuel would be tight. Very tight.

 If he had to stroke the throttles to drop this

 turkey, he was going to need a tanker.

 "One Oh Two will probably need a tanker."

 "Roger that. Showtime One Oh Seven"...th was

 Stiff's wingman, who was orbiting a thousand feet

 above Stiff "remain on station."

 "One Oh Seven aye."

 "Showtime One Oh Two is on the wayea"...Stiff

 told the E-3 controller.

 "That's the spiritea"...Sailor Karnow said from the rear

 cockpit.

 "Shut up, babe. Just do your thing and keep the crap

 to yourself."

 "You got h, dickwick. I'm behind you all the

 way."

 The helicopter landed in the street in

 front of the television station and Mercedes stepped out.

 Ocho waved as it lifted off, leaving her standing there with

 her hair and skirt blowing wildly, clutching the

 videotape.

 El Ocho, alive and well! It seemed like a

 miracle. Truly, she had thought he was dead, lost

 at sea.

 "I have seen the tapeea"...Ocho had shouted over the

 noise of the helicopter as they rode above the lights

 of Havana. "Fidel wanted Hector to lead

 Cuba. His opinion will sway many people."

 Yes, she nodded, fighting baok tears.

 "Why did you give the tape to the Americans?"

 "Vargas would have taken it from meea"...she replied.

 Ocho accepted that because he knew it was true. That

 tape would destroy Alejo Vargas.

 "Make them show it on televisionea"...Ocho had

 shouted. "We will get Hector out of prison."...He

 grinned broadly, showing all his teeth. The future

 was arriving all at once.

 She watched the helicopter disappear into the night

 sky, then turned and walked into the television station.

 One of the most horrifying threats any soldier can

 face is being in the bull's-eye of a modern guided

 weapon. The stealth fighters were out tonight,

 dropping their weapons with extraordinary precision.

 The bombs came in too fast for the human eye

 to follow, especially in the light conditions

 prevailing in Havana this night. For the Cuban

 troops surrounding the old prison, it was as if a

 giant invisible sharpshooter were somewhere in the clouds

 hurling bombs. The two bombs on the

 antiaircraft guns frightened the soldiers and made

 the crowd nervous. Watching from the Osprey, Jake

 Grafton thought for a moment the crowd might stampede:

 with this many people jamming the streets

 that would be a human disaster. Still, he could not take the

 risk the guns or tanks would open fire on the

 inbound helicopter or the Osprey, both of which he

 wanted to land on the prison's roof.

 Through the infrared viewer Jake could see the

 soldiers instinctively moving away from the tanks.

 He could see men getting out of the hatch, jumping to the

 ground, walking away.

 On the street the crowd was also pushing back, crowding

 away from the old fortress.

 Minutes passed and nothing happened. The packed

 rows of humanity on the street seemed to relax,

 to thin as the 'p instinctively sought their own space.

 Jake heard the first bomb tone come on.

 An officer Jake assumed he was"...an

 officerclimbed up on one of the tanks, waved his

 arms at his men. his

 The bomb tone ceased: the weapon was in the air.

 Now the officer standing on the tank put his hands on his

 hipsRita had the Osprey down to a thousand feet,

 only a mile from the building, set up to begin her

 transition to helicopter flight, so the activity in

 the prison courtyard was as clear to Jake as if he

 had been watching it on television.

 "Angel One, this is Battlestar One. Come on

 in."

 "Roger that, Battlestar."

 The Cuban officer was still standing on the tank when it

 disappeared in a flash as the bomb hit it.

 When the cloud of smoke and debris cleared, no one

 was moving within a hundred feet of the blasted tank, of

 which only tiny pieces remained. The bomb must have

 penetrated the armor in front of or behind the

 turret, Jake thought.

 Now the second bomb tone ended. Cuban troops

 were running out of the prison complex through the main gate,

 which Jake belatedly realized was open. The men were

 dropping their weapons, throwing away their helmets and

 running as fast as their legs could carry them.

 The five-hundred-pound bomb from Night Owl Four

 Four exploded in the gate and the running men

 disappeared in a flash.

 "Put it on the roofea"...Jake Grafton told

 Rita Moravia.

 "Okay, I got this guyea"...Sailor Karnow told

 Stiff Hardwick. "He's bogey one."

 The symbol was right there in front of Stiff on the

 headsup display.

 "About thirty miles or soea"...Sailor said

 matter-of-factly." She would sound bored if they

 were giving her an Academy Award. That was another

 thing about her Stiff didn't like. Well, the truth

 was, he hated her guts, but he knew better

 than to say so in the new modern politically

 correct genderneutral navy to which they both

 belonged. A few off-thecuff remarks like that to the

 boys could torpedo a promising career.

 "Lock the son of a bitch upea"...Stiff told his

 RIO.

 "You can't shoot this dudeea"...Sailor said, still bored

 as hell. "There are four stealth fighters flapping

 around down there, three Ospreys and a helicopter,

 or did you sleep through the brief? You can't shoot

 without the blessing of Battlestar Strike, which

 you ain't likely to get."

 Twenty-five miles now. Stiff had the F-14

 coming down like a lawyer on his way to hell, showing

 Mach 1.7 on the meter. He was fast crawling up

 this MiGo's ass.

 "Don't just sit there with your thumb up your heinie,

 honey. Get on the goddamn horn."

 "Battlestar Strikeea"...Sailor drawled on the

 radio. "This is Showtime One Oh Two. We

 got us a situation developing out here."

 Rita didn't use her landing light until the last

 possible moment, snapping it on just in time to judge the

 final few seconds of her approach. As it was,

 only one of the demoralized snipers on the roof

 took a shot at the plane, a wild, unaimed

 shot that punched a hole in the fuselage near

 the port gear and spent itself against a structural

 member. Then the marines charging out of the back of the beast

 fired a shot over his head and the sniper threw down his

 rifle. The other snipers had already done so.

 In seconds thfc chopper from

 United States

 came out of the darkness and set down alongside the

 V-22. Tommy Carmellini and Ocho Sedano

 came scrambling out.

 All this was new to Ocho. With wide eyes he

 looked at the Osprey, at the marines, at the

 skyline of Havana, at the bonfires in the

 street and the tens of thousands of people.

 Toad Tarkington appeared at Jake's elbow.

 "I think I know how to get off this roofea"...Toad

 said.

 "Lead onea"...Jake told him.

 "Uh, Showtime One Oh Two, negative on the

 permission to shoot. That's negatory, weapons red,

 over."

 "Strike, goddamn itea"...Stiff Hardwick roared,

 "We're sitting right on the tail of a goddamn

 MiGo on his way to Havana to kill some of our people.

 I got the son of a bitch boresighted."

 "Showtime, there are too many friendlies over Havana.

 Weapons red, weapons red, over."

 "How about I pop this guy with my gun? Request

 weapons free for a gunshot. Over."

 "Wait."

 Stiff was off the power, idling along at about 400

 knots', five miles behind the bogey. Of course,

 the bogey didn't know he was there. The Cuban

 MiGo-29's had very primitive electronic

 detection equipment, which consisted of a light

 and an auditory signal in the pilot's ear. These

 devices told Carlos Corrado he was being

 looked at by an American fighter radar but failed

 to tell him where or how close the thing was, the two

 pieces of information that he needed the most.

 As he closed on Havana and listened to the tone and

 watched the light, which didn't even flicker,

 Carlos Corrado pondered on the irony of knowing

 American fighters were

 out there somewhere and not being able to do anything about it. If

 he turned on his radar, he would beacon to the

 Americans, who would then come at him like moths to a

 flame. His only chance was to keep the radar off.

 If the Americans launched a weapon at him, he

 had a few flares he could punch off, of course, and

 some chaff. It was not much, but it might be enough. If

 it wasn't, well, he had had a good life.

 Carlos began looking right and left as he crossed

 the suburbs of the city. Amid all the lights he

 spotted some fires, and the center of the city was dark,

 without power, but all in all, Havana looked

 pretty normal. Amazing, that!

 "Battlestar Strike, this is Showtime. Still waiting

 on that permission. This MiGo is posing right here in

 front of me, begging for it. Do I zap it

 or what?"

 "We are still checking with the air forceea"...Battlestar

 told Stiff, "trying to find out exactly where

 everyone is. Don't want any accidents out there,

 do we?"

 Stiff keyed the intercom. "Assholesea"...he roared

 at Sailor Karnow. "They are all stupid

 fucking assholes."

 "I hear thatea"...sd Sailor, sighing. "I've known

 it for years. I should have joined the WNBA."

 Toad Tarkington led the procession along the dark

 corridor of La Cabana prison. Apparently

 the power had not yet been restored after the

 high-voltage towers fell. Everyone following

 Toad had a flashlight.

 The corridors were alive with echoing sound, shouts,

 curses, doors clanging, screams, shots.

 "Hurryea"...Grafton shouted, and ran toward the

 shouts.

 As he suspected, the mob was in the building. As

 he and Toad rounded-* a corner, their flashlights

 fell on a solid wall of humanity dragging two

 uniformed officers. Carmellini shouted. The human

 wall halted.

 "This is Ocho Sedanoea"...Carmellini

 shouted, "Hector's brother. He is here to free

 Hector."

 The man dragging a fat officer by the collar of his

 uniform demanded, "Who are you"..."...Obviously drunk,

 this man had the commandante's pistol in his hand, but he

 didn't raise it or point it. The flashlights were

 partially blinding him, but he could still see the front end

 of Toad's M-16.

 "We are here at El Ocho's

 request."...Carmellini proclaimed loudly. "He

 has asked for our help to free his brother

 Hector."

 The mob moved forward, probably in response to a

 surging push from the people behind.

 "Give us the officersea"...Jake said to Carmellini,

 "and we will bring Hector from his cell."...Carmellini

 shouted the message in Spanish.

 The members of the mob didn't like it, but they were facing

 six rifles in a narrow stone corridor. The people

 at the head of the mob released the officers and turned

 to shout at those behind them.

 The marines grabbed the two officers and pushed them

 away along the corridor.

 Carmellini talked earnestly to the officers. "They

 will lead us thereea"...he told Jake.

 "Colonel Santana arrived an hour ago. He

 was with the commandante until just a few minutes ago."

 "Hurryea"...Jake Grafton urged. "The mob is

 out of control."...He had drawn the .357 Magnum

 he wore in a holster around his waist and now had it

 hi his right hand.

 "Showtime One Oh Two, Strike, the air force

 is having trouble confirming the location of all their

 machines."

 "Strike, this guy is hanging it out, begging for it,

 trolling right over the damn city looking for some white

 hats to zap. Are you gonna cry at the funeral

 after he kills some of our people?"

 This comment was of course grossly out of line: Stiff

 Hardwick was a mere lieutenantan O-3and the

 decisions in Strike were being made by an officer with the

 rank

 of commanderO-5or even captainO-6. He was

 going to be in big trouble when he got back to the

 ship, but he didn't care. The primary object of

 war was to kill the enemy, and by God, the son of a

 bitch was right there. He'd deal with the peckerheads

 later.

 Another minute passed. They were over the heart of

 Havana now. The oily black slash of

 Havana Harbor was quite prominent, as were the dozens

 of fires that now surrounded the walls of the old La

 Cabana fortress.

 "This guy is starting a turnea"...Sailor told

 Stiff, referring of course to the bogey.

 Carlos Corrado should have been searching the night

 sky over Havana for the planes he knew were here,

 but he wasn't. He was only human. He was

 looking at the red warning light and listening to the buzz

 that told him that a hostile fighter's radar was

 illuminating his aircraft.

 The light and tone had been on for five minutes

 now. The miracle was that Carlos Corrado was still

 alive. Five minutes in front of an

 aggressive American fighter pilot was about six

 lifetimes ... and

 still

 the American hadn't pulled the trigger!

 Carlos didn't know why, but he suspected the

 reason had something to do with the fact they were tooling over

 the rooftops of Havana.

 Ocho Sedano and the Americans ran through the

 corridors of La Cabana Prison until they

 came to a massive steel gate. It was closed but

 unlocked; they used the commandante's keys

 to lock it behind them. Then they entered a cellblock

 full of men screaming to be" freed. Hundreds of

 arms reached through the bars, trying to reach the

 Americans.

 The guards led them to Hector, who was in a cell in

 a corridor off the main cellblock. "They have no

 key to the cellea"...Carmellini told Jake.

 "Use C-4. Blow itea"...the admiral said.

 Hector reached through the bars and got his hands on

 Ocho. They hugged while Jake Grafton held

 the flashlight and Tommy Carmellini set the

 explosive.

 "Have you seen Santana"..."...Carmellini asked

 Hector.

 "Yes. He was here."

 "Where is he now?"

 "He heard you coming and ran."

 When the plastic explosive blew the lock apart

 on Hector's cell, Ocho jerked the door open

 and hugged him fiercely. "I apologize,

 Hectorea"...he said. "Please forgive me."

 Jake Grafton dragged them apart. "There is no

 timeea"...he shouted, and pushed them toward the corridor.

 The sounds of the mob tearing at the steel bars

 barred the way into the cell block could be heard above

 the shouts of the men in the cells.

 Toad led his party the other way. Another door,

 precious seconds wasted while the officers fumbled

 for a key, then they were through and going up a stairway.

 More stairs, then along a long, dark corridor

 lit only by flashlights.

 As they rounded a turn someone ahead fired a shot

 at them. The bullet spanged off a wall, and

 miraculously failed to connect with human flesh:

 Suddenly sure, Tommy Carmellini told

 Jake, "It's Santana. You go on. I'll

 get the bastard."

 "We don't have time for personal

 vendettasea"...Jake Grafton snapped.

 "I'm a civilian, Grafton. I can take

 care of myself. Go on!"

 Jake led his party onward.

 When they came out onto the roof the Osprey's

 position lights and flashing anticollision light

 revealed a crowd of at least three hundred people.

 They completely surrounded the Osprey and helo and the

 marines with rifles who held them off. The pilots

 must have shut down the engines due to the large number of

 people nearby. Lieutenant Colonel

 Eckhardt walked back and forth behind the marines, an

 im-

 posing martial figure if ever there was one.

 Fortunately no one in the crowd seemed to be armed.

 Jake and Toad forced their way through the crowd.

 It was Ocho who stepped in front of the crowd and

 began to speak. "This is my brother Hector, the

 next president of Cuba."

 The crowd cheered lustily.

 "I am El Ocho. I wish to know if you love

 Cuba?"

 "Si!"

 they roared.

 "Do you believe in Cuba?""..."...SiThat

 "Will you fight for Cuba?"

 "Si!"

 "Will you follow me and put Hector Sedano in the

 presidential palace?"

 "Si! Si! Si!"

 The crowd breathed the word over and over and swarmed around

 Ocho.

 "Comeea"...sd Jake Grafton, and pulled Hector

 toward the Osprey.

 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 As Jake Grafton and the others climbed

 the stairs toward the roof of La Cabana

 Prison, Tommy Carmellini doused his

 flashlight and held it in his left hand. He stood

 in the darkness waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim

 light.

 He had a pistol that the marines aboard ship had

 given him, a 9-mm, that felt cold and comforting in

 his grip. He closed his eyes, listened to the cheers

 and shouts from the roof, waited until he heard the

 chopper and Osprey get airborne.

 Finally the corridors of the old fortress grew

 quiet.

 Santana was in here someplace.

 Jake Grafton had his thing and he was hard at it.

 William Henry Chance had his thing, trying to control

 biological and chemical weapons in Third World

 countries, and he had died doing it. Tommy

 Carmellini's thing was cracking safes. Sure, he

 was doing it for the CIA now instead of stealing diamonds

 from rich matrons, but somehow that wasn't enough. There

 comes a time in a man's life when he begins to tally

 up 4he score. When Carmellini realized

 Grafton wasn't going to take the time to step on the

 cockroach Santana, he knew he had to.

 He stepped forward now, walking the way

 Hector had indicated that Santana had gone.

 Taking his time in the near-total darknessthere was just enough

 light to see the outline of the corridorwalking,

 listening, walking, listening again, Tommy Carmellini

 moved to the end of the corridor and stopped.

 He could hear metal on metal, as if someone was

 trying

 to open a lock. The sound came'from the corridor

 on the right.

 Tommy Carmellini bent as low as he could get,

 eased his head around the corner.

 Yes, the sound was clearer now.

 Ever so slowly he edged around the corner, crossed the

 corridor to the other side, began moving forward into the

 blackness, toward the sound.

 The noise stopped.

 Carmellini froze. Closed his eyes to concentrate

 on the sound.

 The pistol was heavy in his hand.

 The sound began again.

 Forward, ever so stealthily, moving like a glacier, just

 flowing slowly, silently, effortlessly....

 The man was just ahead. Working on a lock.

 Probably on one of those steel gates.

 Again the sound stopped.

 Carmellini froze, not trusting himself to breathe.

 The other man was here, he could feel him. But where?

 Time seemed to stop. Tommy Carmellini held his

 breath, stood crouched but frozen, knowing that the

 slightest sound would give away his position.

 Santana was ...

 Suddenly Carmellini knew. He was right...

 There! He pointed the pistol and pulled the trigger.

 The muzzle flash strobed the darkness, and revealed

 Santana swinging the butt of his rifle, swinging it

 at Carmellini's head.

 He tried to duck but the rifle struck his shoulder and

 sent him sprawling. He held on to the pistol,

 triggered two more shots, which came like giant

 thunderclaps, deafening him with their roar.

 The flashlight was gone, lost when he fell. His

 left shoulder was on fire where the rifle butt

 struck him, his arm numb. He could hear Santana

 running, shuffling along, the sound fading.

 He felt for the flashlight with his right hand, couldn't

 find it, paused and listened and searched some more. There!

 He picked it up without releasing the pistol. Now

 he put the pistol between his legs, tried to work the

 flashlight with his right hand. It was broken. He set

 it on the floor out of the way.

 He listened, heard the faintest of sounds, then

 nothing.

 Tommy Carmellini slowly got to his feet and

 began moving back the way he had come, after

 Santana.

 "Showtime One Oh Two, Battlestar Strike.

 You are cleared to engage the bogey with a gun.

 Weapons free gun only, acknowledge."

 "Weapons free gun only, ayeea"...sung out

 Stiff Hardwick, and jammed his throttles forward

 to the mechanical stop. The engines wound up quickly;

 Stiff eased the throttles to the left, stroked the

 afterburners. The big fighter leaped forward and began

 closing the five-mile gap between the two planes.

 Carlos Corrado glanced over his left shoulder,

 for the hundredth time, expecting to see nothing, but this time

 he saw the plume of flame that was Hardwick's

 burners.

 The Yanqui must be right behind me.

 Enough!

 He slammed the throttles to the hilt, dropped the

 left wing and pulled right up to six Gs. The

 MiGo-29 then showed why it was one of the most

 maneuverable fighters in the worldit turned on a

 dime.

 As it did, Carlos Corrado fought the G and

 flipped his radar switch to the transmit position.

 Leveling up after a 180-degree turn, the radar

 scope came alive ... and there was the

 Americanclose. Too close! Jesus Christ!

 Without time to even consider the problem, Carlos

 Corrado punched off an Aphid missile, which

 roared off the rail in a blaze of fire straight

 for the F-14.

 Sailor Karnow saw the bogey wind into a left

 turn, and called it to Stiff, who instinctively

 lowered his right wing to stay in the MiGo's rear

 quadrant.

 What Stiff wasn't prepared for was the

 unbelievable quickness with which the MiGo-29 whipped

 around and pumped off a missile.

 The sight of the fiery exhaust of the Aphid missile

 coming at him from eleven o'clock and the wailing of the ECM in

 his ears, telling him that he was being painted by a

 MiGo-

 29 pulse-doppler radar, reached Stiff

 Hardwick's brain at the very same instant. Before

 Stiff could react in any way, the missile shot

 over his canopy inches above his head. Fortunately

 for Stiff and Sailor and their progeny yet

 unborn,, the Aphid had not flown far enough to arm, so

 the missile passed harmlessly.

 "Holy shit!"

 Sailor shouted into her oxygen mask.

 Stiff Hardwick hadn't spent the last four years

 flying fighters for nothinghis instincts were finely

 honed too. As the Aphid went over his head, he

 jerked the nose of his fighter toward the closing

 MiGo, visible only as a bogey symbol on the

 HUD, and pulled the trigger on the stick. The

 20-mm M-61 six-barreled cannon in the

 nose lit up like a searchlight as a river of fire

 streaked into the darkness.

 Carlos Corrado saw the finger of God reaching for

 him and slammed his stick back, then sideways. The

 MiGo's nose came up steeply and the right wing

 dropped in a violent whifferdill that carried it up

 and out of the way of the fiery stream of cannon shells.

 Completing the roll, Carlos Corrado pushed the

 nose of his MiGo downward, toward the city, and let

 the plane accelerate without afterburners, the light of

 which would beacon to the American. Or Americans,

 if there were more than one, which was probable.

 Carlos pulled out just above the rooftops and thundered

 across the city. He had lost track of the

 enemy's location

 because he could not see him visually or with his radar.

 He desperately needed his GCI site just now

 to call the enemy's position, but of course the GCI

 people had been knocked off the air and were either dead or

 drunk.

 Still, the contest appealed to his sporting instincts.

 He decided to try for one in-parameters missile

 shot before he called it a night and went looking for a

 bar.

 His radar was still on, still looking at nothing.

 Without further ado, Carlos pulled the stick back

 and let the MiGo's nose climb. Up past the

 vertical, G on hard, the MiGo used its

 fabulous turning rate to fly half of a very tight

 loop. Upside down with its nose on the

 horizon, Carlos slammed the stick sideways and

 rolled upright The F-14 was out to his left,

 turning toward him. Corrado flipped his switches

 to select an infrared missile, turned toward the

 American until he got a tone in his headset,

 and squeezed it off.

 Then he killed his radar and turned hard ninety

 degrees right to exit the fight.

 "Oh, noea"...Stiff Hardwick swore as

 he saw the missile coming at him from ten o'clock.

 He lit his afterburners and dropped the right wing

 slightly and willed the Tomcat to accelerate,

 trying to force the missile into an overshoot, while

 he punched off chaff and flares with a button on his

 right throttle.

 The missile tried to make the turn but couldn't.

 Perhaps the IR seeker in the nose locked onto a

 flare. In any event, as it flew past the tail

 of the Tomcat its proximity fuse caused the

 warhead to detonate, spraying shrapnel into empty

 air.

 The MiGo-29 was gone. It had disappeared.

 "You know, dickwickea"...Sailor Karnow told her

 pilot, "I think God is really trying to tell us

 something."

 Carlos Corrado knew that he had had more than his

 share of luck this night. Although he was flying a

 tremendously maneuverable airplane, the

 electronic detection and coun-

 termeasures systems were generations behind the F-14 that

 had followed him around. Why the F-14 had not shot

 him down he couldn't guess, but he was wise enough to know

 that luck sorely tried is bound to turn.

 He decided to put his MiGo on the ground

 while it was still in one piece. Fortunately there-was

 an airport nearby, Havana's Jos6 Marti

 International, right over there in the middle of that vast

 dark area. Since there was a war on, someone had

 turned off the runway lights.

 Corrado pulled off the power, let the fighter slow

 to gear speed, then snapped the landing gear down.

 Flaps out, retrim, and swing out for an approach

 to where the runway ought to be. On final he turned

 on his-landing light and searched the darkness below.

 There! Concrete.

 He squeaked the MiGo on and got on the brakes.

 He left the landing light on to taxi.

 "Showtime One Oh Two, the MiGo is landing at

 Jos6 Marti."...That was the air force controller hi

 the Sentry AWACS plane.

 Stiff Hardwick was climbing through five thousand

 feet at full power when he heard that

 transmission. Fortunately he had committed a

 map of the Havana area to memory, so he knew

 precisely where Jose Marti International lay.

 He cut the power and lowered the nose.

 "What in hell do you think you're doing,

 Stiff"..."...Sailor demanded.

 "Shut up."

 "We barely got enough fuel to make the tanker as it

 is, pea brain. You go swarming around down here for a

 few more minutes begging that Cuban to give you-the

 shaft and we'll be swimming home."

 "I'm gonna get that Cuban son of a bitch.

 Gonna strafe him on the ground. Gonna kill that

 bastard deader than last week's beer."

 Sailor Karnow knew the pilot was serious. Here

 was a

 frustrated man if ever she had met one. As the

 plane dove for the black hole that was Jose'

 Marti International, she tried to reason with Stiff:

 "You can't shoot the guy on the ground at a

 civilian airport. There's no lights down there,

 you might kill a bunch of civilians!"

 "There he is! I can see the fucking guy

 taxiinghe's still got his landing light on!

 There he is!"

 Sailor Karnow was losing her patience.

 "You pull that trigger, Jake Grafton will cut

 your balls off, you silly son of a bitch!"

 His

 Stiff Hardwick knew the jig was up. Sailor

 was right he hated women who were always right. He reached

 up and safetied the master arm switch. And

 kept the Tomcat coming down.

 Edged the throttles forward as he dropped lower and

 lower, boresighting that barely moving plane down there

 with the single landing light shining forward. The needle on the

 airspeed indicator crept past Mach 1.

 The radio altimeter deedled, he kept going

 lower....

 "Don't fly into the ground, you idiotff"...Sailor

 pleaded from the rear cockpit.

 Thfe fear in her voice probably saved both their

 lives. Stiff eased back on the stick just a

 smidgen, an almost microscopic amount, so the

 F-14 rose another ten feet above the ground as

 it roared over Carlos Corrado's taxiing

 MiGo-29 like a giant supersonic missile.

 The American fighter passed a mere four feet

 over the MiGo's tail; the shock wave shattered the

 MiGo's canopy.

 Then Stiff pulled the stick back in his lap and

 lit the burners and went rocketing upward like a bat

 out of hell.

 "Better get on the horn and get us a tanker,

 baby, or you're gonna be my date in a life

 raft tonight."

 Sailor had the last word. "Honest

 to God, dickwick, you oughta think about taking up

 another line of work."

 Tommy Carmellini wondered if he had managed

 to put a bullet into Santana. That was a lot

 to hope for, but still... three shots, and the man no more

 than five, six feet away?

 With luck.

 A man needs luck as he goes through life.

 Life is timing, and timing is- experience plus

 luck.

 Carmellini wondered just how much experience sneaking

 along dark corridors Santana had had through the

 years. He hadn't impressed Carmellini as the

 sneaking type. One never knew, though.

 He found himself moving slower and slower, listening with his

 eyes closed caret concentrating. He could

 hear...

 Breathing. Corning from somewhere ahead. Definitely

 breathing.

 Jake Grafton had Rita circle out over the

 harbor while he talked to other airplanes he had

 inbound. After a few minutes, he told her to fly

 toward the university.

 Looking through the infrared viewer, he could see that the

 streets around the university were deserted.

 Not a car or truck moving, none parked, no people.

 Alejo Vargas was down there, all right.

 Jake got out of the copilot's seat and went aft

 to talk to Hector Sedano, who was sitting beside

 Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt. Jake

 pulled one of the Spanish-speaking marines along

 to translate.

 "Do you know of the biological-warfare laboratory

 in the science building of the university?"

 No, Hector didn't. Jake took a minute

 to explain.

 "My government has sent me to destroy the polio

 viruses that are in that lab, and the equipment that was used

 to grow them. Do you have any objection to me doing that?"

 Hector did not, as long as innocent lives were not

 lost unnecessarily.

 Talking loudly over the aircraft's high internal

 noise, Jake continued while the young marine, a

 buck sergeant, translated: "I promise you,

 we will proceed with all due

 care. The stakes are very high, those viruses must be

 destroyed. If you will join me in this humanitarian

 effort representing the new Cuban government, I

 believe the job can be done with a minimum loss of

 life."

 'Tell me of this laboratoryea"...Hector Sedano

 demanded. "What you know of it, and how it came to be."

 The feeling was coming back in Tommy Carmellini's

 left arm. It hurt like hell now, like someone had

 tried to carve on his shoulder with a dull knife.

 Ignore the arm. Listen!

 He froze. He hadn't realized it, but there were

 cells on both- sides of the corridor, cells with

 open doors.

 Santana must be in one of them. Which one?

 A sound like a sigh.

 He heard it! From the left, maybe ten feet.

 Frozen like a chunk of solid ice, Carmellini

 didn't move. He continued to breathe, but very

 shallowly, taking all the time in the world.

 Minutes passed. How many he couldn't say.

 He could hear the murmur of the mob somewhere below. No

 doubt they had turned all the prisoners loose.

 The other man was being extremely quiet.

 Extraordinarily so.

 Carmellini finally began moving, reluctantly,

 ever so slowly, like the shadow of the sun as it marches

 across a stone floor. And he made about the same

 amount of noise.

 .he was in the cell, feeling his way ...

 when his left foot touched something that shouldn't be there.

 Like a cat he reacted, the pistol booming faster

 than thought.

 In the muzzle flash he saw that Santana lay

 stretched on his back on the floor, his eyes open

 to the ceiling.

 The bastard was dead.

 From the cockpit Jake Grafton could see the

 crowds below on the streets. Rita had the Osprey

 flying at 2,000 feet, and

 *

 Jake could see the swarms of people with his naked eye,

 without using the infrared viewer, though he used it

 occasionally to check on the progress of the crowd.

 Rita swung the Osprey over the university

 district, and he picked out the science building.

 He watched the mass of humanity flow into the

 district, surge along toward the science building.

 He used the viewer, steadied it carefully and

 cranked up the magnification. Yes, the knot of

 humanity at the front of the crowd, that had to be around

 Ocho. El Ocho, as the Cubans called him.

 The boy was fearless. This afternoon when Jake explained

 to Ocho that there was a strong probability that the

 soldiers would refuse to fire on the

 civilians, might even disobey their officers if

 ordered to fire, Ocho merely nodded.

 Perhaps the ordeal in the ocean had toughened Ocho, or

 perhaps he had always been impervious to fear. That

 emotion affected people in an extraordinary variety of

 ways, Jake knew.

 Looking through the viewer it was difficult to be sure,

 but apparently soldiers were joining the crowd with Ocho

 as he walked along.

 He wanted to let Hector accompany Ocho, but

 his better judgment told him no. A single

 sniper, one frightened soldier, and the last best hope

 of Cuba might be dead in the street. With the

 viruses still in that lab, that was a risk Jake

 Grafton was not yet prepared to take.

 As he watched, he wished he were with Ocho. That

 walk must be sublime, he thought.

 Ocho Sedano knew a great many people because he had

 spent years accompanying his brother to speeches,

 sitting in planning sessions, helped him dig

 holes to hide weapons. Many more people, however, knew

 Ocho. Every Cuban between eight and eighty knew of the

 star pitcher who threw the sizzling fastbalis and hit

 home runs when his turn

 came to bat. Many people recognized him,

 shouted to him as he walked along, then decided

 to shake his hand and join the throng behind him.

 As the human river turned the corner onto the

 avenue that led to the university, a knot of soldiers

 left the shelter of a doorway and came toward

 Ocho. He didn't stop, kept striding along the

 center of the street.

 "Haltff"...the senior officer shouted. He was a

 major. "You are entering a military area! You can go

 no farther!"

 Ocho didn't even slow his pace. The soldiers

 had to join the crowd to keep from being trampled.

 "You! Stop these people! This is a secure area,

 by order of Alejo Vargas.".

 "We will not stop."...Ocho laughed. "Do you think you can

 stop the sun from rising?"

 The soldiers hurried along, trying to talk

 to Ocho, who refused to slow his pace.

 "You are El Ocho"..."...one of the younger soldiers asked.

 "The days of Vargas are over, my friendea"...Ocho

 explained. "Give away your gun and come along with

 us."

 The sheer numbers and weight of the people pushing along

 frightened the major, who had a pistol in his hand.

 Even as his subordinates handed their

 weapons to the nearest people in civilian clothes, he

 placed himself in front of Ocho, who didn't stop

 walking,

 "I order you to stop, Sedanoff"...he shouted, and

 pointed" the pistol at Ocho's head.

 "You would make me a martyour, would you"..."...Ocho asked

 the major, who was trying to match Ocho's stride.

 "Look around you, man. No one can stop them."

 The major fired the pistol into the air. His face was

 drawn and pale, almost bloodless. "Stop or I

 shoot you down, as God is my witness."

 "Mi amigo,"

 said Ocho Sedano, "for days at sea I was ready

 to die; all the fear drained from me. There is none in

 my heart now. My death will not stop these people: nothing can

 stop the turning of the earth. Still, if you feel you

 must kill me, make your peace with God and pull the

 trigger."

 Then he smiled.

 El Ocho was a madman, the major realized. Or

 a saint. The major wiped at the perspiration on his

 forehead, and handed Ocho the pistol.

 Ocho passed the weapon on. He put his arm around

 the major's shoulders. "Comeea"...he said.-"We will

 walk to the promised land together."

 Like a wall of water rushing along a dry arroyo,

 the human river flowed along the avenue toward the

 university as airplanes droned through the darkness

 overhead.

 In the foyer of the science building, Alejo Vargas

 heard the airplanes. He looked at the

 politicians and young soldiers who waited

 silently behind him, blocking the doors to the stairs

 and the elevator, and he looked at his aides, who were

 nervously looking out windows, trying not to fidget.

 Where was Santana?

 The man should be here: he was Alej6 Vargas's one

 loyal friend on this earth.

 Vargas paced back and forth, stood in the doorway

 and listened to the airplanes, wondered if the troops

 he had hidden in the surrounding buildings were loyal,

 would still fight. Over two thousand heavily armed men were

 waiting for the Americans. This time the Yanquis would

 not escape: this time there would be prisoners to parade

 before the cameras, vanquished foes to kneel at his

 feet as Cuba cheered. This time ...

 A car rocketed up to the front of the building and a

 man leaped out, a uniformed colonel with the

 "Department of State Security. He ran up the

 stairs, came running through the door, saw

 Vargas and ran toward him.

 "The televisionea"...he said breathlessly. "On the

 television, they are showing a tape of Fidel."

 "Yes"..."...sd Vargas, his brows knitting.

 "Fidel made the tape before he died. He wants

 Hector Sedano to be the president after him."

 "What"..."...Vargas didn't believe a word of it.

 "They run the tape, which takes about six minutes,

 then run it again, over and over and over."

 "That's impossibleea"...Vargas said, turning toward the

 politicians, who had moved closer. "Fidel

 made no such tape before he died. He wanted

 to make a tape naming me as his successor, but

 his-illness prevented it."

 "They are showing a tape on televisionea"...the

 colonel insisted. "Fidel says the nation must

 change, and Hector Sedano is the man to lead that

 change."

 "It's a trickff"...Vargas roared. "The Yanqui

 CIA is playing a trick on us."

 Every face was openly skeptical.

 "Fidel is dead! Don't you people understand that"..."...A

 rising symphony of babbling voices and helicopter

 noises came through the open door.

 "What is happening"..."...Vargas demanded,

 turning in that direction. "Where are the soldiers?"

 He saw heads climbing the- stairs, many heads,

 then a mob of people in civilian clothes and army

 uniforms poured through the doorway, forcing their way in.

 The room filled rapidly.

 People in the doorway stood aside for two men who

 walked through together, one a tall, rangy young man and the

 other of medium height, wearing a one-piece faded

 prison jumpsuit.

 They stopped in front of Vargas.

 Hector's voice was plainly audible to every person

 in the room when he said, "Alejo Vargas, I

 arrest you in the name of the Cuban people for the murder of

 Raiil Castro."tilde Vargas's hand darted

 inside his jacket for a pistol, but before he could get

 it out a dozen hands reached for him, pulled him to the

 floor, and took the weapon from him.

 Maximo Sedano spent the night aboard his yacht

 in Havana Harbor. He heard the planes and the

 explosions of bombs falling around La Cabana

 Prison, but he didn't go ashore. He had worked

 until night fell hunting for the gold that he was

 sure lay on the floor of Havana Harbor.

 He found a great deal of junk and trash, but no

 gold.

 As the bombs were falling he drank some rum, idly

 studied the skyline, thought about gold.

 Thirty-seven tons of gold. My God, what a

 man could do with a fortune like that! Cars, yachts,

 women, all the good things hi life.

 He was filthy from the muck and pollution of the harbor.

 The water tank on the boat was not large, so he

 sponged off as best he could and- resolved to take a

 shower ashore at the first opportunity.

 The next morning he began diving as soon as the

 sun came up. Boats came and went and Maximo

 worked steadily. He changed tanks once.

 The work was maddening. The most probable location for the

 gold was the marina anchorage, where Fidel and Che

 must have spent the nights they were anchored. Here is where

 they must have dumped the gold overboard!

 Yet it wasn't on the floor of the harbor. He

 thought mud and sediment might have covered the ingots, but

 even when he dug, he could find nothing.

 He wasn't being systematic enough, he decided as

 he lay exhausted on the deck of his boat, his

 broken fingers aching like bad teeth.

 He knew he couldn't go on today, so he took the

 dinghy and motored ashore. He had his empty

 tanks along for the harbormaster to fill.

 Tired, working one-handed, Maximo took several

 minutes to get the small boat tied up and the empty

 air tanks onto the dock. He picked them up and

 carried them toward the harbormaster's shack.

 The man was sitting inside reading a newspaper.

 "Can you fill these"..."...Maximo asked.

 The harbormaster looked up to see who was asking, then

 brightened. "Senor Sedano, of course. I am so

 delighted to hear about your brother. Congratulations."

 "What?"

 The look of surprise on his face must have shocked

 the harbormaster, who held out the newspaper.

 "Surely you knowea"...he said. "Your brother Hector

 is the new president of Cuba."

 Maximo took the paper, sank down into the only

 empty chair, stared at the headlines.

 "What a nightff"...sd the harbormaster, beaming like the

 sun. "History in the making. Hector and El

 Ocho, what a team!"

 "Amazing."

 "And look! The newspaper published a letter from your

 sister-in-law, Mercedes. Forty years ago

 Fidel hid the peso gold under the floor of the

 presidential palace. It's still there, every ounce of

 it. Sixty

 tons of gold

 the nation owns, eh! Isn't that amazing?"

 The gray U.s. Navy ammo ship anchored in the

 bay and put a launch into the water. The coxswain

 brought the small boat around to a gangway. In a

 few minutes the trill of a bosun's pipe could be

 heard, then a series of bells over the ship's

 loudspeaker.

 A group of officers and sailors in white uniforms

 came down the gangway and climbed aboard the

 launch.

 The town of Antilla, Cuba, lay baking in the

 sun. The

 waterfront was lined with fishing craft. The only

 ships at the pier were two small coasters, about a

 thousand tons each. The launch maneuvered against the

 pier and Rear Admiral Jake Grafton stepped

 ashore. Gil Pascal and Toad Tarkington

 followed him onto the pier.

 "That's the warehouse over thereea"...Toad said, and

 pointed.

 Jake just nodded. He waited as a knot of

 Cubans came walking out on the pier toward him.

 "Where"...ness the translator?"

 "Right here, sirea"...sd an enlisted man, who

 stepped forward beside Jake. He too was togged out in

 his best white uniform.

 After the usual diplomatic greetings, Jake,

 Captain Pascal, and the translator went with the

 Cubans toward the warehouse, leaving Toad alone

 on the pier.

 Tarkington strolled along, looking here and there, his

 arms folded behind his back.

 He was standing near the head of the pier when he heard a

 noise. He stepped to the edge, leaned over.

 A man in a black diving suit covered with muck

 and slime was dragging his gear out from under the pier into the

 sun.

 "I was wondering where you guys wereea"...Toad said

 conversationally.

 "Some days you're the pigeon, some days you're the

 statueea"...the navy SEAL said. "Three days we've

 been living under here like harbor rats, watching that

 warehouse. We searched it the first night, Commanderthe

 warheads were in there. And they're still there; the Cubans

 haven't taken anything out."

 "Where's your partner in crime?"

 "Over on the other side of those coasters. He'll

 be along in a bit. Think we could get a ride out

 to the ship? I've been dreaming of a hot

 shower, a hot meal, and a clean bunk."

 "I think that can be arranged."...Toad reached down,

 helped lift the diving gear onto the pier.

 When the SEAL was standing on the pier beside him, dripping

 onto the splintered boards, Toad said, "How'd you

 like your Cuban vacation?"

 "I want better accommodations for my next

 visit."

 As the president of the United States feared, the

 aftermath of the second Cuban missile crisis, as

 the press called it, was a political disaster in

 Washington, with howls of outrage from the press and

 demands from frightened senators and congressmen for

 investigations and the resignations of everyone in the

 executive branch.

 The president watched General Tater Totten

 retire from a distance, didn't go to the small

 Pentagon ceremony, let the White House

 spinmeisters whisper that Totten was somehow partially

 responsible for the journey to the brink of the abyss.

 Sensing that he couldn't win a whisper war, Totten

 kept his mouth shut and departed with dignity.

 Amid the impassioned breast-beating and public

 denunciations, the director of the CIA decided that

 he too had had enough of Washington. He had

 a final conversation with the president in the Oval

 Office after he submitted his resignation but before the

 White House announced his departure.

 "Sorry to see you goea"...the president muttered

 politely, not meaning a word of it. The director

 nodded knowingly.

 "Don't know if this congressional investigation can be

 derailed or notea"...the president said, not willing

 to look the director in the eye. "A lot of what

 happened will be classified forever, so I don't

 really see what they stand to gain by stirring through the

 ashes."

 "They'll investigate anywayea"...the director

 predicted gloomily. "That's what I want

 to talk to you about. At one of those meetings during the

 crisis you asked for the name of our top man in

 Cuba, and I wrote it down for you. I don't know

 if you ever looked at that name, but it would

 be absolute disaster if that person's name were revealed

 to a congressional investigator."

 "After you wrote it down, I looked at the nameea"...the

 president said, speaking slowly. "Not at the

 meeting, but later. Didn't expect to recognize

 it, but then was amazed that the last name was the same as the

 priest who was thrown in prison."

 "Mercedes Sedano was Castro's mistress and an

 intelligence treasure. She told us of drug

 deals, Vargas's blackmail files, Fidel's

 secret bank accounts.... When she wanted the

 tape made of Fidel naming Hector as his

 successor, there wasn't time to go through the usual

 drops and cutouts, so she went directly to the

 American Interest Section of the Swiss

 embassy. None of this must come out, Mr.

 President. If the Cubans find out she was

 whispering to us, Hector Sedano's government might

 fall. And she might lose her life."

 "That sheet of paper no longer existsea"...the

 president said. "I suggest you destroy the

 files."

 A few minutes later as the director was preparing

 to leave, the president said, "I have never understood

 spies. Why did that woman betray her country?"

 The director blinked like an owl. "I don't know

 that she didea"...he replied, and walked out of the Oval

 Office for the last time.

 On a Wednesday morning in November Tommy

 Carmellini parked his car in a large parking garage

 in downtown Denver and got his backpack from the

 trunk.

 The weather was gorgeous, a sunny, mild day with

 air so clear the peaks of the Rockies looked

 close enough to touch. Autumn leaves lay packed in

 gutters and windrows waiting for tomorrow's wind to blow them

 around.

 Carmellini walked two blocks to the Sixteenth

 Street mall. While he was waiting for a free

 shuttle bus he bought a copy of the

 Denver Post

 from a vending machine. Like so many of the young people, he was

 dressed in tennis

 shoes, faded jeans, and a threadbare pullover

 sweater. An unzipped windbreaker was tied around his

 waist. A backpack hung over one shoulder. The

 shuttle bus stopped at the end of every block to let

 people on and off. Hanging from a strap, Carmellini

 kept his backpack pressed against the rear window of the

 bus.

 At the western end of the mall Carmellini let himself

 be swept along with the flow of people into the regional bus

 depot. He found a bus to Boulder, climbed

 aboard, and dropped the fare into the change box, then

 eased into a window seat five rows behind the driver.

 He kept his backpack on his lap.

 The bus filled quickly. In minutes the

 driver closed the door and pulled out of the station.

 Tommy Carmellini opened the newspaper and

 examined the front page. All U.s. sanctions

 against travel and commerce with Cuba were lifted, and the

 U.s. was opening an embassy in Havana. There

 was a photo of the president of the United States

 shaking hands with Hector Sedano at a news

 conference in Washington.

 Tommy flipped through the paper. On page four he

 found a short item reporting a Florida grand

 jury indictment of El Gato, a Cuban exile

 living in Miami, charging him with selling unnamed

 equipment to the Cuban government in violation of the

 laws existing at the time. According to the newspaper, El

 Gato was the only person indicted.

 Carmellini folded the paper and tucked it in the seat

 pocket in front of him.

 Cuba was long ago and far away. Of course he still

 read the news and classified summaries, and heard

 people talking about Cuba and the people he met there.

 Microsoft and Intel were building big factories

 in Havana, and Phillip Morris was buying one

 of the oldest cigar companies for beaucoup bucks.

 Rear Admiral Jake Grafton was now an

 assistant to some bigwig in the Pentagon,

 Commander Toad Tarkington went with him as an aide,

 and Toad's wife, the newly promoted Commander

 Rita Moravia, was the exec-

 utive officer of a fighter squadron. Hector

 Sedano was doing an enviable job running Cuba, and

 some fighter pilot nobody ever heard of named

 Carlos Corrado had been promoted to general and

 put in charge of the Cuban Air Force.

 .life goes on.

 Most of the seats on the bus to Boulder were occupied.

 The sun coming through the windows and the motion of the bus were very

 pleasant, and many people dozed. The seat beside

 Carmellini was empty, so he relaxed

 las

 grip on the backpack and closed his eyes.

 He was awake when the bus crossed Davidson

 Mesa into Boulder, roaring down the turnpike at

 seventy-five. He marveled at the upthrust

 granite slabs of the Flatirons which formed a

 spectacular backdrop behind the town.

 As the bus cruised by the university on its way

 downtown, Tommy Carmellini walked to the door

 by the driver and waited. He got off at the next

 stop and stood looking at the red stone buildings of the

 university as the bus accelerated away in

 a cloud of diesel exhaust.

 He had a map in his hip pocket, but he had

 studied it so much he didn't need to refer to it today.

 He strolled along, readily recognized the

 student union, and went from there.

 The buildings were built all of. a pattern, and with

 throngs of students coming and going, seemed to proclaim

 the glory of man's quest for knowledge in the bright

 November sunshine.

 Carmellini glanced at his watch a time or two,

 then strolled along with his hands in his pockets. He

 found the building he wanted, opened the door, and

 went in. He took the stairs up to the top

 floor.

 The hallway was lined with doors, lots of doors.

 He walked along, examining them. Each door

 bore the name of a faculty member, and most had a

 small card advertising the faculty member's

 office hours taped to the frosted glass.

 He found the one he wanted, checked the hours. He

 was early, by ten minutes.

 He knocked.

 No answer.

 Should he wait here in the hallway, or ... perhaps the

 library? The hallway was empty, but

 someone could come along at any moment.

 Of course the professor might not come at all.

 Carmellini recalled his own college days: a

 student could spend weeks trying to waylay a tenured

 associate professor in his office.

 Well, if this didn't work he would try something

 else. Just what, he didn't know.

 He decided on the library. He turned and started

 down the hall. He had taken three or disfour

 steps when disthe door opened behind him and a man in his

 sixties stuck his head out.

 "Did you knock?". "Yes."

 "Got a watch? Can you read? Office hours

 don't start for ten minutes."

 "Yes, but"

 "Oh, come on in."

 Carmellini carefully closed the door behind him. The

 office was tiny, merely a cubbyhole with a desk and

 computer for the professor and one extra chair.

 Bookshelves filled with books lined both side

 walls. A shelf under the window behind the professor

 was piled willy-nilly with papers, manuscripts,

 files. The glass in the window didn't look as

 if it had been cleaned in years.

 "If this is about your thesis, we're going

 to need more time than I have available today, so"

 "You're Professor Svenson, right?"

 "That's right."...The professor had seated himself behind his

 desk. He looked up into Carmellini's face and

 adjusted his glasses. His features twisted into a

 frown.

 "Your face doesn't... You're ...?"

 "Your name is Olaf Svenson?"

 "What do you want?"

 Tommy Carmellini unzipped the backpack,

 pulled out

 the pistol with the silencer. He thumbed off the

 safety.

 A look of terror crossed Svenson's face.

 "The government has no evidenceea"...he said. "They

 decided not to prosecute. They"

 Tommy Carmellini shot Olaf Svenson in the

 center of the forehead from a distance of four feet.

 Svenson collapsed in his chair, his head tilted

 back.

 Carmellini stepped around the desk, put the muzzle

 of the silencer against the side of the professor's head

 and pulled the trigger twice more. Two little pops.

 He bent down, retrieved the spent cartridges that

 had been ejected from the pistol, pocketed

 them, then safetied the weapon and returned it to his

 backpack.

 He had touched only the doorknob. He

 extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the

 interior knob carefully, then pulled the door

 open. He pushed the little button to lock the door,

 then stepped into the hallway and pulled it shut. One

 hard twist of the cotton handkerchief on the outside

 knob, then he was walking away down the hallway and

 no one could ever prove he had been there.

 Surrounded by young adults strolling, laughing, and

 visiting with each other on the sun-dappled grass,

 Tommy Carmellini walked across the campus with his

 head down, the backpack over his shoulder, thinking of

 Cuba.

 Visiting the former British province, Admiral

 Jake Grafton becomes embroiled in a

 volatile conspiracy that will threaten the fate of a

 nation, the security of the free world, and the future of his

 own family . . .

 HONG KONG

 By Stephen Coonts

 After a series of political murders shakes

 Hong Kong's establishment to its core, paranoid

 government forces shut down a faltering

 bank. Subsequent riots trigger brutal

 military crackdowns, leaving China's position in

 the coveted province anything but certain.

 When shadowy conspirators abduct his wife,

 Admiral Grafton must throw himself headlong into the

 swirling intrigue that has engulfed the city. Only

 by allying with Tommy Carmellinithe CIA

 super-sleuth from CUBA-AND with a clandestine army of

 Chinese patriots, can Grafton fight to the

 shores of totalitarianism's last bastion . . .

 and hope to ever again see the woman he loves.

 HONG KONG

 The explosive new thriller from Stephen

 Coonts. Look for it in hardcover this September

 from St. Martin's Press.

 HK3/00