The verbal jab was effective, as evidenced by Castro’s trembling cheeks. “Your threats are just that! Our forces are not the weak peasants you think they are. They are committed! They will stop you!” He slammed a fist down hard. His eyes met those of the American interpreter, and they were his match. The man had a cold stare, one of hate. Yes, he had seen that before. That look. But he would never understand the reasoning.
“They will not,” the secretary retorted, in his laid-back Midwest monotone. “Your words are very similar to a Middle Eastern dictator of the past, one whom we dispatched of in a fashion similar to what you are facing. So don’t consider it a threat, President Castro — consider it an ultimatum. Your General Ontiveros has locked you into this position.” Coventry had to congratulate himself for adding that.
Castro fumed within himself. Ontiveros, you have been a sore in my leadership for too long.
It was time to offer an out. “We can solve this problem, and begin an era of new and better relations. My government does not wish to take any action against the Cuban people. We do, however, want the chance to save our people — that is all.” Now, the fly. “I am certain that you can deal with Mr. Vishkov in your own way. We have no claim to him; only the Russians do, I believe. The decision is yours.”
Secretary Coventry took his seat again. He thought his words sounded scripted, as official exchanges often did. He was fitting in just fine, he realized, which, in a way, was a bit disappointing.
Castro fidgeted back in the chair, rising up against its back, then standing. His surprised interpreter, a ranking member of Cuban Intelligence, followed the lead. “Of course, Mr. Secretary, you will remain until your Delta Force completes its mission.”
The secretary did not want to disclose the somewhat unorthodox plan, but there would need to be some exchange of information. “Yes, I will. Our forces should land shortly before the hijacked plane does, and then, I presume, they will set up. The force commander can discuss specific details with your officers via radio.”
“That would be best.” Castro casually saluted the American. He was a crafty player, somewhat blunt, but then he had the muscle to back up the threats. Alone, the ultimatum would not have swayed him; his forces could have dealt the Americans a serious, if small defeat, and the Americans seemed to neglect the fact that Cuban MiGs could also reach the Gulf Coast of the United States. Ontiveros, on the other hand, was a problem. No matter what would have come from an American assault, Castro was sure the arrogant general would seize the opportunity to advance his position in the government. Well, he would be in for a surprise, a very unpleasant surprise, as would Anatoly Vishkov. The physicist and his protector would no longer be a bother to the Cuban leader. As soon as the sun rose, a man would fall.
“You did good,” Coventry told his interpreter when the door closed behind the visitors.
“I would rather have shot him,” came the reply. The man remembered the Cuban jails of the sixties.
The secretary thought he understood the man’s commitment to some ideological, nationalist cause, but he didn’t. He truly would have shot him.
Several minutes later the 707 taxied behind a guide vehicle to a darkened section of Jose Marti airport where maintenance was normally performed. For the next few hours no maintenance would be occurring, and no flights would be arriving. To the contrary, before Air Force Three stopped rolling, the word had gone out for all the commercial aircraft to leave the airport. Though it had not yet been agreed upon, many of them, including several Aeroflot jumbo jets, would disperse to airfields in south Florida, much to the surprise of American controllers. Also before the jet stopped its move, a call was made to the White House from a quietly gloating secretary of state.
By the time the call made its way to Dr. Ralph Cooper it had passed through several high-ranking officers of the Louisiana Air National Guard, and was subsequently relayed to him by his wing commander. Driving through the gate he flashed his ID at the guard and mentally shed his hospital greens. Soon he would change nameplates, step into his dark green flight suit, and become Major Ralph ‘Snoopy’ Cooper, weekend aerial warrior.
It had been a while since he had been pulled out of bed for a deployment exercise, but it was something he prepared himself for. It was better than his old Air Force days in Korea, where it was way too dangerous and too damn cold.
Flight ops was all lit up, and several security guards stood solidly outside, gauging Cooper’s maroon Volvo as it approached. Colonel Brown, the fighter squadron’s commander, was with them.
“Major, glad you could make it. C’mon.” The colonel led off around the flight ops building.
Major? Cooper noticed the serious formality. Weekend flyers usually had a somewhat relaxed hierarchical rank structure, one that was ruled by first names or pilot call signs. “Hold on, don’t I get to change?”
Brown halted. “Sorry, not today. You can change over by the bird. We’ve got a van there.”
This was different Something was up. Hell, usually he would show up for a two-day activation, shoot the bull with the guys, and fly for as long as they’d let him. He made all the money he’d ever need working four days a week teaching internal medicine at the university, so getting to ‘play’ in an F-15C was sometimes hard to believe. They let him have fun in a multimillion-dollar jet.
“So what is going on, Colonel?” Cooper asked.
“I’ll fill you in while you suit up.”
They were at the aircraft in under ten minutes. It sat outside one of the old metal hangars, not the concrete blast boxes that housed the twin-engine Eagle. Cooper knew instantly that different was not an adequate description of the statement. The bird was not a sleek F-15C Eagle — before him was a relic from his past.
“What the…” Cooper said aloud as he walked, hands on his chute webbing, toward the delta wing, sky-gray fighter. It was nosed toward the hangar. “An F-106? What gives?” he asked, stopping to eye the aircraft from nose to tail.
“You flew these a few years back.”
“A few years? More like twenty. Christ, I haven’t even seen one of these babies in…must be ten years.”
“It’s mission-capable,” the colonel commented. He was right. It looked to be in almost perfect condition. The nearly forty-year-old aircraft’s skin was smooth under the glow of the outside lights, no wrinkles or mars being visible. Every detail was crisp. Lettering and the old squadron flash were impeccably done.
“For what mission?”
“Look,” Colonel Brown answered, pointing to the underside of the Delta Dart.
And there it was, just like Major Cooper remembered, except for one important difference. He had flown with the Air-2A Genie nuclear-tipped air-to-air missile long before in Korea, and had participated in ‘live’ practice-fire exercises using inert warheads in the deserts of the west. It hung from the center bay hoist like a stubby cartoon bomb, ready to be pulled fully into the weapons bay. This one didn’t have the distinctive blue-colored warhead section in the missile’s center, which would have identified it as an inert practice round. This missile was entirely white.