“Delta will take car—”
“No!” Joe was uncomfortable with this one. He usually dealt only with benign threats, or those caused by some mechanical glitch, but there was a madman behind this radioactive nightmare. “We don’t know if this is going to work, and even if I can get at those things I can’t guarantee that I can stop them from going critical.”
“You have to try.”
“Dammit, I will, but if I can’t do anything you’ll have to—”
“Mr. Anderson. We couldn’t send those men up there with the knowledge that a partial failure, or even a total success on their part, might still mean death. There has to be some hope. So this stays with you: Arrangements have been made.”
The inference was obvious. “That’s as shitty as it gets. It’s nice to have this on my shoulders.” Joe pulled the headset off roughly. The com officer was facing his instruments but looked up when his phones were tossed onto the console desk. “They’re all yours, junior.”
Anderson made his way off the flight deck and headed back toward his seat. At the forward part of the hold he stopped, seeing the added lighting farther back where the Delta troopers were. It was a little eerie, the way the light and contents of the aircraft bounced together in the turbulence. Some thought about a ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ popped into his head, but he quickly dismissed it for the bullshit he knew it was.
The wheels of the old 707 had stopped rolling a minute before. Already Secretary of State James Coventry, his interpreter, and the Air Force officer with the designs were farther back in the aircraft, in the conference room. Against one side of the cabin chairs were set in place, the rest of the space being used by the real oak table and the twelve chairs around it. The secretary sat at one end, near the door that led into what used to be the airborne presidential bedroom, and on his right was the interpreter, a Cuban exile for over thirty years and a twenty-five-year man at State. He seemed pensive, Coventry noticed, but then he had a right to. In this country — his homeland — he was considered a criminal. In one of the seats along the wall the captain sat. The portfolio containing Vishkov’s design rested atop his lap, with one of his hands holding each short side.
There was a knock at the forward door. “Visitors, sir,” the Secret Service agent said, then closed the door. His post was just aft of the cockpit, and he returned there immediately. Only he and another agent were aboard this flight, and their orders were to stay ‘removed’ from any happenings. Officially, this meeting was not taking place.
They could not refrain from exchanging glances when ‘the visitor’ walked through the forward cabin door. He hesitated, eyeing them up and down, before following two of his entourage toward the back of the jet. Five men in all came aboard. Both agents decided quietly that they had not seen them, a move that would have pleased their boss to no end.
It was the captain who saw him first. He thought he looked huge, much larger than television seemed to portray him. And where were the olive drab fatigues?
Secretary Coventry stood. He was in shirtsleeves, partly because he felt it would make him look like he meant business, and partly due to the inadequate air-conditioning in the old executive jet. His counterpart — at least on this aircraft — wore a sand-colored military-style jacket with a modest plate of ribbons and medals over his left breast. There was no fatigue cap, once a trademark of the man, only a headful of thick gray hair. Even the beard was graying, its short, curly hairs trimmed neatly so his mouth was clearly visible. The man, after all, was a performer of sorts, and the way he said his words was sometimes as important as their meaning.
The men did not shake hands. President Fidel Castro took a seat at the opposite end of the conference table. He dismissed all but his interpreter, who sat next to him.
Castro looked around the room and smiled. “A present, perhaps, from your president?”
Coventry returned the smile for a second. “I will ask, Mr. President.”
“So, it is early in the morning — why now does your government desire such a high level of contact?” He gestured grandly. “It has been many, many years.”
Poker face and no bluffing, Coventry reminded himself. “Sir, we have a very big problem, one that your government has unknowingly allowed to happen. You obviously are aware of the hijacked American civilian airliner. It is on its way to Havana to refuel.”
“Yes. Yes. It will come, we will refuel it, and it will go. We have no desire to endanger innocent lives. And your comment did not go unnoticed.” A wagging finger pointed across the table. “Your charges are old and tired, my good Mr. Secretary. Never has your government been able to prove any of its accusations. Why would a small country, a poor country, such as mine sponsor such terrorist acts? How could we?”
A master. No wonder he’s still in power. Coventry nodded to the captain, who opened the case and set the drawings before Castro. “President Castro, I’m certain that you are very familiar with a Mr. Anatoly Vishkov.” The Cuban leader looked up from the pages as he leafed through them, folding them back toward the table’s center. “That is one of his designs — a nuclear weapon. Our Central Intelligence Agency purchased it at an auction of sorts in the Netherlands. Unfortunately, another of the designs got past us and was obtained by Colonel Qaddafi. It’s of similar dimensions and capabilities. We believe that it is on the aircraft, and that the hijackers plan to detonate it over Washington.”
Castro closed the case. His face was without emotion while his lips twisted in thought.
“Your government has allowed Vishkov to live without fear of accountability for—”
“Mr. Secretary, you—”
“No, President Castro! This will not drag out into an exchange of ideologies; there is no time. We have ample corroboration of our beliefs, and that is that. What must happen now is an agreement between our governments to cooperate in ending this matter. Our Delta Force has devised a plan to secure the aircraft, but they must stage it from this airfield.”
“Attack an aircraft with a nuclear weapon on board? On Cuban soil? American military forces?” Castro let out a grunting laugh which ended in a series of coughs. “And we are responsible? Hah! I suggest you take up the question of responsible with those you have oppressed for so long. Now they have the upper hand. And you,” Castro spit the words out, “you, a representative of the American government, come here to beg for my help, for the help of the Cuban people! I have heard all that can be heard! How soon we forget your country’s aggression against mine.”
The secretary laid out his hand before his interpreter. The man smiled ever so slightly as he drew an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket.
“President Castro.” Coventry waited for the interpreter to slide the envelope across the table. “That is a list of targets in your country. Yes, targets. If our rescue forces are not allowed to do their job, your country, by way of its sheltering of a known peddler of nuclear terror, will be held responsible with others for this act, and the military forces of the United States will completely dismantle your military forces…all of them. Right now we have massive air forces positioning themselves in the Southern states. It will be massive, President Castro. And devastating.”
“You are out of your mind,” the Cuban interpreter said without prompting.
“No.” Coventry stood and walked to the row of windows on the starboard cabin wall. There were several military vehicles around the blue-and-white 707. “Not in the least. We’ve had experience with this, as you are fully aware of. When the American people learn of what your refusal to allow our forces to stage from here has caused, you will be lucky to escape this affair with your life. I think I can be honest if I say that any action will not stop with air strikes; it may become necessary to invade and occupy your country. Similar to what happened in Iraq, and in Panama. You do remember Panama?”