The car carrying the three CAA officials reached the Lightning at the same time as the ground crew. The crew piled out of the van and quickly installed ground locks on the landing gear. Once the gear was secure, two men fitted a hand pump to the socket on the left side of the fuselage, just aft of the wing’s trailing edge. One man pumped furiously, and the canopy slowly opened while Shanker and Eric climbed out of the service van. Shanker gave Seagrave a thumbs-up. “You did good,” he shouted.
The CAA headman jumped out of his car, his face bright red, and started shouting the moment Seagrave climbed down the boarding ladder. “This aircraft does not carry a certificate to fly, nor were you authorized to fly!”
Seagrave ignored him and helped Liz climb down, her legs still a little weak. “Are you okay?” Seagrave asked.
“Perfect,” she answered.
Seagrave walked around the jet with Shanker and Eric, examining it for damage. One of the ground crew was looking in the left main gear well. “Here’s the problem. A gland let go when you retracted the gear. Never happen if the system were exercised regularly.”
“It’s the same with us,” Shanker said. “You got to keep ’em flying once or twice a week or they turn into hangar queens.”
The CAA headman was livid with rage as he trailed after Seagrave. “What’s your name? What are your qualifications? Who gave you permission to operate this aircraft? Why did you take off? What speed were you going when you flew down the runway? What was your height? What do you have to say?”
Seagrave gave him a sad look. “Which question to answer first? Ah, height. Six feet three inches in my socks. Question one: Robin Seagrave. Question two: eight thousand hours on fighters. Question three: your chaps. Question four: It was either take off or kill half the crowd on the runway. Not a long time to make that decision, and I don’t recall hearing any input from the CAA at that particular moment, which would have been most helpful. Question five: six hundred knots. That’s six hundred ninety miles per hour for you nonflying types.”
The CAA man sputtered. “That’s supersonic!”
Seagrave shook his head in resignation, his suspicions about the CAA fully confirmed. “Don’t you consider it strange that no one heard a sonic boom?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Try seven hundred sixty miles per hour at sea level for Mach One. What was I saying? Oh, yes, question six: I’ve already answered that, but if you mean altitude, two hundred feet.”
Seagrave leaned into the CAA official, his eyes cold blue steel. “As to what I have to say? Are you naturally thick, or did you take a course? Talk about failed common sense. If you, as the CAA official in charge, had done your work properly, you would have known a protest was planned and exercised proper crowd control or canceled the taxi demonstration.”
Shanker had to add his two cents’ worth. “I saw the CAA talking to the demonstrators about two hours earlier in the parking lot.”
The CAA official whirled on Shanker. “Your contribution was not called for.”
Shanker gave him an expressive shrug that was clearly a “fuck you” message.
“Offhand,” Seagrave said, rolling in for a second strafing pass on the CAA, “it appears that your lack of appreciation of the situation allowed those bloody stupid demonstrators to place a large number of people in danger, the least of whom were my passenger and myself. In fact, I plan to raise the issue with my MP.”
The CAA official blanched at the thought of Seagrave’s MP, or member of Parliament, questioning the CAA in the House of Commons. Now it was his turn to attack. “I want this aircraft towed to the nearest hangar and salvaged immediately. It will never fly again.” He stormed away without waiting for a reply.
“Have a nice day,” Seagrave called. He took a deep breath and turned to the ground crew. “I’m afraid I cocked it up. Looks like the end for the old girl.”
“Maybe,” Shanker said, “I can help.”
3
Eduardo Pinar was the first to arrive at Café Martí, a sidewalk café in the heart of Little Havana. He found a table at the back and collapsed into the chair, his slender body spent from the exertion of walking two blocks in the early-September afternoon sun. As always, he was oblivious to the noise and hustle around him. Just another dreamy young man with a droopy mustache and limpid, brown eyes going nowhere and without ambition.
A waiter approached and made small talk as he waited for Eduardo to order. “The heat has finally broken,” the waiter said in Spanish. “Soon we’ll see the tourists again.”
“Will we?” Eduardo replied in English. “Espresso and a newspaper, por favor.”
“Cuba Libre?” the waiter asked, not that it made any difference. Cuba Libre was the only paper allowed in the café, which was frequented by equal parts anti-Castro exiles, Cuban spies watching the exiles, and FBI agents watching both groups and trolling for recruits among either. For the waiter the only question was which group Eduardo currently belonged to. Allegiances changed almost daily, but he’d sort it out.
A skinny little woman Eduardo knew only as Carita arrived at the same time as the espresso and newspaper. Like Eduardo, she ordered a small cup of the potent brew that could etch a sidewalk. “Where’s Luis and Francisco?” she demanded in English.
“Coming,” Eduardo replied. He didn’t like Carita, but Luis had insisted she join the group.
“Have you heard about the others?” she asked.
“I heard they were arrested and are in jail.”
“They’ll die there,” she said, unconsciously lapsing into Spanish. “The bastards will execute them in their cells.”
“Were we betrayed?” Eduardo asked.
“Of course we were,” she snapped. “How else—” She fell silent as the waiter returned with her espresso. When he left, she continued. “Our country will never be free.” She fought back her tears. “Not in our lifetime.”
Eduardo was moved by her tears and reached across the table, covering her hand with his. His eyes flashed with passion, and he spoke in Spanish. “Do not lose faith. For every one of us they cut down, four more will arise in his place. We will free our country of this evil, this abomination to God and humanity. Our children will return to their homeland and not have to live under the cruel tyranny that has driven us into exile.” He stopped talking when Luis Barrios and Francisco Martínez arrived. Like Eduardo, they were in their mid-twenties.
Luis Barrios, the group’s leader, slumped in a chair and mumbled a few words of deep despair for their jailed comrades. Then he talked about their struggle to win the freedom of their country. Slowly his own words renewed his spirit and filled him with purpose. The movement was not dead, and as the Semtex explosive had been delivered, they had work to do.
Eduardo called for their bill.
The waiter scoffed at the small tip Eduardo left behind and scooped it off the table in disgust. A tall, very pretty woman with dark hair sitting at the next table caught his attention. She often came to the café, always alone, and most of the waiters thought she was either an FBI or a CIA agent. But as he always pointed out, beauty attracted attention, and that was bad for an agent. Personally, he thought she was attracted to Latin men or just practicing her Spanish. Perhaps both. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” Sophia James said in passable Spanish. “Are they really freedom fighters?”
“Them?” the waiter said in disgust. “They’re from Puerto Rico, not Cuba.” She couldn’t hear the accents. At least she’ll leave a large tip.
She did.