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 bruise on her forehead was yellow and blue now.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Jake said, and strapped himself into the crew chief’s seat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
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 nervous — who wouldn’t be? — but 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-117s 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 immediately,” Carmellini told Mercedes, who held the tape tightly with both hands.
“We are going to get Hector out of prison,” Ocho said, anxious to explain. “We could take you 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 lit — not as well lit as an American city, but Almost The central core of the city was dark — the 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 lower,” 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 tank — Jake 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 fence — yes, the main gate was closed.