“You’re saying that if the Cubans murder ten million Americans, we have to kill every human in Cuba?”
“That’s right. Mutually assured destruction.”
“M-A-D.”
“Insane. But there is no other way. If these people think you lack the resolve to retaliate in kind, you just lost the war.”
“If anyone kills Americans we will retaliate,” the president said. “That’s been U.S. policy since George Washington took the oath of office.”
The general concentrated on straightening a paper clip, then bending it into a new shape.
Finally, when the president had had his say, when the national security adviser had summed up the situation, the chairman spoke again: “The agent in Havana who found the lab had a request. It was in the last paragraph of his message this morning. Mr. Adviser, do you wish to discuss it?”
The adviser obviously didn’t wish to discuss it; he could have raised the point at any time during the meeting and hadn’t. A flash of irritation crossed his face, then he said, “I’ve gone over that request with the staff, and with State, ah, and both staff and State feel it is completely out of bounds.”
“What request?” the president asked curtly.
“Sir, staff and State feel the request is absolutely out of the question; I struck it from the agenda.”
“What request?” the president repeated with some heat.
“The agent wants Operation Flashlight to happen at one-thirty A.M. tomorrow,” Tater Totten said.
“And that is?” the president said, frowning.
“He wants the power grid in central Havana knocked out.”
“Oh. Now I remember. You want to blow some high-voltage towers.”
“That’s correct, sir. This operation was discussed and approved three weeks ago.”
“Oh, no. Three weeks ago I gave a tentative approval, tentative only. Sabotage of a power network of a foreign nation is a damn serious matter. Back when I was in school we called that an act of war.”
“It still is,” the national security adviser said. He was something of a suck-up, General Totten thought.
“I think this matter deserves more discussion,” the president said.
“Yes, sir.”
“What happens if the people setting these charges are arrested?”
The director of the CIA reluctantly stepped in. “Sir, that is one of the inherent risks of clandestine operations. The men who set the charges know the risks. We know the risks. The fact is that the possible gains here make the risks worth running. That’s the same cost-benefit analysis we make before we authorize any clandestine operation.”
“What if one of these people is arrested? Can the Cubans prove they work for the CIA?”
“No, sir. They will appear to be Cuban exiles, in Cuba creating mischief on their own hook.”
“This operation gives me a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach,” the president said. “There are too many things going wrong all at once.”
General Totten could hold his tongue no longer. “There is no time to be lost,” he said. “Four vials of microorganisms taken from a biological warfare laboratory located just ninety miles south of Key West in the capital of a communist country hostile to the United States are this very minute being examined in laboratories in the Washington area. Cuba could become another Iraq, armed to the teeth with chemical and biological weapons. This nation cannot afford to let that happen. Cuba is only ninety miles away. The risk is simply too great.”
The president glared around the room. Looking for someone to blame, General Totten thought.
“Mr. President, Flashlight will take hours to pull off,” the CIA director said. “I’ve already given the order for it to proceed.”
“You’ve already given the order?” The president repeated the words incredulously.
“There was no time to be lost,” the director shot back. “These things take hours to set in motion. The execution time is one-thirty A.M., less than six hours away.”
The chairman of the joint chiefs leaned forward in his chair, rested both elbows on the mahogany table. “Mr. President, we have no choice in this matter. None at all. If this administration fails to move aggressively to learn exactly what the Cuban threat is and take steps to meet it, you will almost certainly be impeached and removed from office by Congress for dereliction of duty.”
The president looked as if he were going to explode. This was a side of him the voters never saw. A control freak, like most politicians, he hated just being along for the ride. Watching the president seethe, Tater Totten knew his days on active duty were numbered. The CIA director had better start thinking about retirement, too.
“Who is our agent in Cuba?” the president demanded.
The director looked startled. Names of agents were closely held, never discussed in meetings like this. Yet he couldn’t refuse to answer a direct question from the president of the United States. “Sir, if you need that information, I could write it on a sheet of paper.” The director grabbed a notepad and did so. He tore off the sheet, folded it once, and passed it down the table. The president put the folded paper in front of him but didn’t open it.
“I want to know who authorized this man”—the president tapped on the folded paper with a finger—“to go to Cuba to see what cesspools he could uncover.”
“Sir, this mission was authorized by this council two months ago.”
“Then why in hell didn’t someone mention it when we were discussing getting our warheads home from Guantánamo Bay? Why wasn’t that cargo ship escorted from pier to pier? Why in hell didn’t we get those warheads out of there two months ago, two years ago? Why in hell can’t you people get a goddamn grip?”
Silence followed that outburst. It was broken when the chairman said, “Instead of fretting over the timing, let’s pat ourselves on the back for being smart enough to have an agent in Havana. It’s the Cubans’ weapons lab, not ours.”
When Tater Totten walked out of the room, he still had his letter of resignation from the joint chiefs in his pocket. He had prepared it when the national security adviser struck Operation Lightbulb from the agenda. Maybe he should have laid the letter on the president and retired to the golf course before these fools drove this truck off the cliff. He had no doubt the mess in Cuba was about to blow up in their faces, and soon.
The American warship nearest the unnamed cay where the North Korean freighter was anchored was a destroyer out of Charleston, South Carolina, manned by naval reservists on their annual two-week tour of active duty. The destroyer had been on its way to Nassau for a weekend port call when the flash message rolled off the printer.
The destroyer’s flank speed was 34 knots, and she was making every knot of it now as she thundered down the Exuma Channel with a bone in her teeth.
From five thousand feet Jake Grafton could see the destroyer plainly even though it was twenty miles away. And he could see the wake lengthening behind the North Korean freighter, Wonsan.
“Damn scow is getting under way,” Rita said disgustedly. She was flying the V-22. “It’ll be in international waters long before the destroyer gets there.”
“Wonder how many warheads they pulled out of the water?”
“We’re going to find out pretty soon,” Jake muttered. “If this guy stops and lets us board him, he won’t have a warhead aboard. If he refuses to heave to, he’s got a bunch.”
“What are you going to do, Admiral, if he refuses to stop?”
Jake Grafton didn’t have an answer to that contingency, nor did he want to make the decision. If that eventuality came to pass he would ask for guidance from Washington, pass the buck along to people who would probably refer it to the politicians.