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 understand,” 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 once,” 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 years — he 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 last,” Maximo said. “And quickly. Alejo Vargas must be assassinated within hours of Castro’s death. Within minutes.”
“We would have to kill Santana too,” 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 alive,” 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 sheep,” 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, yes,” 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 incident,” 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 different — he 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 then,” Pascal said to Toad.
“He’s the second best friend I have in this life,” 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 assignment, 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 course,” said 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 see,” said 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 family — all 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.