“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, Señor 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 Guantánamo 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 laughable,” he scoffed. “No American president will ever order the use of weapons of mass destruction, even in retaliation. The Americans stopped making war years ago — they 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 patriots,” Santana agreed. “After the Bay of Pigs, Castro was president for life.”
“A man with the right enemies can do anything,” Vargas declared, and smiled.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
While Alejo Vargas and Colonel Santana were conferring in Havana, the Americans opened fire. Three Spruance-class 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 their launch climb and disappeared into the sea haze. One of the missiles dove into the ocean, making a tiny splash.
“There went three million bucks,” 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 José Martf 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 Washington,” 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, Admiral,” the president said.
“Jake, this is Tater Totten.”
“Good evening, sir.”
“Just wanted to say good luck,” the general said, then the connection broke.
Jake Grafton handed the handset to the chief.
“Here is your aspirin, Admiral,” Gil Pascal said, holding out water and three white pills.
Four EA-6B 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 combat 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.