But this world was far from ideal. Lab Rat clicked the mouse in his hand, flashing the first slide up on the screen.
He saw the admiral shift impatiently in his seat as a topographical map of Cuba lit the front of the room. Lab Rat hastily punched the button again, cycling on to the next slide.
“Let me cut to the chase. Admiral.” Lab Rat flicked the laser pointer on and centered the small red dot over the western tip of Cuba. “We have indications that Major Hammersmith is being held here.
Additionally, I have satellite imagery that indicates the Cubans are standing up a new weapons system, probably longrange offensive land attack missiles.” Lab Rat paused, guiltily enjoying the sudden sharp intakes of breath he heard around the room.
The admiral shook his head from side to side. “You don’t fuck around when you say cut to the chase, do you?” he said, surprisingly mildly.
“Okay, Lab Rat, go ahead and start the backing and filling I know is going to come. You intelligence types never make absolute pronouncements, do you?”
Lab Rat resisted the impulse to gloat. “We do when we can. Admiral.
As of thirty minutes ago, this was the situation.” He punched the clicker again, flashing the next slide up on the screen.
It was overhead imagery, a highly detailed and accurate photograph of the area produced by one of the U.S. national assets a satellite.
Everyone in the room, even those who had seen such imagery before, leaned forward almost involuntarily. The clarity, the detail exceptional.
The photograph was in black and white. Centered in the rectangle was a man in an American flight suit surrounded by a squad of six armed Cuban army guards. They were walking toward a small cinderblock building.
The American had his face turned up toward the sky, and was being jabbed in the kidneys by the rearmost guard.
“Thor appears to have remembered his SERE lessons well,” Lab Rat said neutrally. Every pilot attended the Survival, Evasion, Rescue, and Escape course before being assigned to a carrier. “He was looking up at the sky at every opportunity. The Cubans seemed to know what he was doing, too they nailed him every time. We’ve got six good photos of his upturned cherubic little face, this one being the best of the lot.
It’s him, no doubt.”
Batman studied the photo for a moment before nodding sharply.
“Concur.
So we know he’s alive and we know they’ve got him. Now tell me about these weapons.”
“Here.” The next slide was just as detailed, but not as immediately self-evident. Lab Rat traced around three rectangular structures on the screen. “For those of you who are familiar with the short-range Soviet land attack missile systems, you’ll recognize this launcher.
It’s designed to handle either conventional or nuclear weapons. The satellite pictures picked it up first, and the existence of such weapons has been confirmed by HUMINT-human intelligence.
Spies and informers, to give them their common name.” Lab Rat paused to let them absorb the implications. “Let me remind you that all of this information is classified ‘top secret.” Given the political instability in Cuba, with the fighting between factions over control and the presence of military advisors from Libya, we have warnings and indications that Cuba may be advocating the nuclear option.”
“Nuclear?” Batman’s tone of voice left no doubt as to the depth of his concern. “Is that a probability, or just a possibility based on capabilities?”
“A strong probability, unfortunately. While I can’t confirm that there are nuclear weapons inside Cuba, examination of two freighters making port in the United States immediately after Cuba indicates small traces of radioactivity. The Coast Guard picked them up after they became suspicious during a routine drug search. Evidently they saw something they didn’t like and ordered a full detention and search. After the first click on their Geiger counter, they called in NEST the Nuclear Emergency Services Team.
They confirmed that something radioactive has been in that container within the last thirty days. Unfortunately, they can’t tell us exactly what. But the levels indicate” Lab Rat spread his hands open before him” that there’s a strong possibility it was weapons-grade material.”
Batman turned pale. “And I thought we’d solved this forever with the Cuban Missile Crisis,” he said wonderingly. He shook his head as though to clear his thoughts. “So we can’t be certain, but that evidence combined with the missile launchers gives me a really rotten feeling in the gut.”
The room was deadly silent. Not an officer moved, and some barely seemed to breathe. Lab Rat glanced around the room, noting the pale, shaken faces. He understood completely-he’d felt that way himself not an hour before when the first satellite imagery had been faxed into the highly classified CVIC. He felt an odd, incongruous sense of relief.
It was nice not to be the only one who knew.
“I think I’d better talk to SOUTHCOM right away,” Batman said slowly.
He stood up, dismissing the rest of the staff with a gesture. “Pull up the contingency plans. All of them, even Bird Dog’s. Be ready. This is a surprise, but it’s not one we can’t handle. I want full reports from all departments in thirty minutes.” He turned and walked rapidly toward the door leading to his cabin.
“A rotten feeling in my gut,” Lab Rat echoed slowly. He walked to the back of the room and took the floppy disk from the technician who’d been operating the computer.
“Sir?” The young enlisted man’s voice shook slightly.
“What does it mean? Do they really have nukes?”
Lab Rat clapped the man on the shoulder and forced a smile onto his face. “I don’t know, Benson. But whatever they’ve got, we’ve got a cure for it. There’s not a damned thing they could possibly have that could get through the Jefferson battle group not a damned thing.
Remember, if they start pulling any shit on us, we can turn the whole island into glass.”
The man looked slightly less worried. “That’s right, they can’t get past Jefferson.” He paused for a moment, then said, “But what about that major there? The Marine?”
And that, Lab Rat thought, was the two million dollar question. What about Thor?
The angry chatter of gunfire cut through the dull roar of wind across the flight deck. Lieutenant Commander Brandon Sikes, officer in charge of the USS Jefferson SEAL detachment, paused at the hatch leading out onto the hot tarmac and surveyed the scene. The forward portion of the deck was crowded with aircraft, wings-folded Tomcats nose to-nose with similarly configured Hornets, the bulkier E2C Hawkeyes taking up the space just aft of the island.
Helicopters with their rotors folded like broken mimosa leaves edged the deck, with the exception of two ready helos positioned slightly behind the rest of the pack.
Even with the hangar bay below crowded with aircraft, it was an impressive display of weaponry and force. Almost a football field away, a small group of men clad in tattered khaki shorts and faded brown T-shirts stood in a line facing aft. Even from here, he could make out the outlines of the different types of weapons they carried45s, M16s, and AK-47s. Had they not been U.S. SEALs his men he would have been worried.
Sikes trotted down the tarmac. The safety observer spotted him immediately, and with a sharp motion terminated the exercise. He could hear the men grumbling good-naturedly, a sound that faded away immediately as they saw his face.