“Thank you.”
As a speech to a Cuban audience accustomed to Fidel’s six-hour harangues full of baroque phrases and soaring rhetoric, Alejo’s little effort seemed underdone. He had actually made a conscious effort not to sound like Fidel. Watching the tape of the speech, he thought it went well.
“Air it immediately,” he said to the television producer, and walked back toward Fidel’s old office.
Alba and Delgado were there to meet him. They had known that Vargas intended to blame Raul’s murder on Hector Sedano when he made this speech: indeed, they had already signed eyewitness affidavits swearing that they saw Hector shoot the man. That Alejo Vargas had the cojones to make the big lie stick meant a lot to these men who had spent their lives in an absolute dictatorship and knew that the man at the top had to be completely ruthless, without scruple of any kind, to survive. Fidel had been willing to crush his enemies any way he could; Vargas seemed to have the same talent, so perhaps he had a chance.
The two military men shook Vargas’s hand. “Tell us, Señor Presidente, what the Americans will do.”
“I have thrown the ballistic missiles in their face,” Vargas said. “I expect the Americans to go to the United Nations Security Council and ask for sanctions, perhaps a world trade embargo sanctioned by the UN. Now that the missiles have been discussed in public, the American government cannot ignore them, even if they want to.”
“Do you anticipate an attack?”
“I do not, but we must take precautions. The missiles sit in hardened silos impervious to air attack, or nearly so. It is possible that the Americans might attempt commando raids. I suggest you move troops to the sites, have them dig in around the silos.”
“And if the Americans attack and we cannot repulse them?”
“This dog will bite. Fire the missiles.”
Alba grinned. His hatred of the Yanquis was common knowledge. “If the Americans do attack, when would you expect it?”
“They will try diplomacy first. Only if that fails will they try military action.”
“Still, I would like to move the troops immediately.”
“By all means,” said Alejo Vargas. “We will have television cameras film your men digging in to defend Cuba.”
“And the missiles? Are you going to film them?”
“Of course. Cuba is a sovereign nation. The world has changed since the 1962 missile crisis. We have an absolute right to defend ourselves, and if necessary we shall. Any noise the Americans make will rally the Cuban people to us.”
Even as Vargas talked to his military men, the president of the United States’s advisers were arguing for diplomatic initiatives before military options were weighed. “We must go to the United Nations first,” the secretary off state stated forcefully.
“What if the UN turns us down?” the president asked in reply.
“We need political cover,” the secretary shot back. “A significant percentage of Americans think Castro was a hero, a champion of the downtrodden, and we unfairly bullied him. The fact that he was an absolute dictator with zero regard for human rights means very little to the political left. Then there is the casualty problem — the American people won’t tolerate seeing their soldiers killed while fighting for oil or corporate profits in foreign wars.”
“What bullshit!” snapped Tater Totten. “I’m really sick of listening to Vietnam draft evaders tell us that Americans don’t have the guts to fight for civilization.”
“I am not a draft evader,” shouted the secretary of state, her face red, her cheeks quivering. “I demand an immediate apology!”
“Shut up, both of you,” the president growled.
“I apologize,” Tater Totten muttered, almost as if he meant it.
The president had done some hard thinking since Tater Totten demanded that the presence of the Cuban missiles be addressed before any other matter with Cuba was put on the table. Six missiles with biological warheads aimed at the southeastern United States — Cuban missiles today were every bit as serious as when John F. Kennedy had to deal with them, he decided. If the administration asked for the blessing of the UN Security Council and didn’t get it, he would be worse off than if he ordered military action immediately.
The lab and processing facility worried him too. If Cuba could manufacture polio virus and put it in an aerosol solution, any plane that could fly across the Straits of Florida could attack the United States.
By the time Alejo Vargas’s broadcast was translated and replayed for the National Security Council, the president strongly believed that the American people would react angrily to the presence of missiles in Cuba. The outrage of the congressmen and senators who heard the speech convinced him.
He called on Tater Totten again. “I’m getting the cold sweats just thinking about this crap. Tell me what we are going to do to make sure the Cubans don’t shoot those missiles.”
“Sir, the best insurance is to go after the missiles, the lab, and the processing facility as soon as humanly possible, before the Cubans get troops in there to defend them.”
“When is humanly possible?”
“Tomorrow night would be the earliest possible date. Every day we wait allows us to assemble more forces. Conversely, every day we wait the risk increases: Tomorrow Vargas can move more troops to guard those silos; he could get wind of what’s coming and threaten to release polio virus by airplane, by missile, or have somebody with an aerosol bomb in a suitcase turn it loose God knows where.”
“So why not go tomorrow night?”
“We must put enough people and firepower in there to get the job done. It’s a nice calculation.”
“Do you want me to make that decision?”
“I recommend that you leave the decision to the military professional who is there, Rear Admiral Grafton. He’s spent thirty years in uniform training for this moment, for this decision.”
The president grunted.
The Chairman continued, “By tonight we will have two Aegis cruisers in the Florida Straits between Cuba and Florida. Jake Grafton ordered them there on his own initiative. He’s a good man. The cruisers have the capability of shooting down ballistic missiles coming out of Cuba.”
“Do the Cubans know that?”
“Someone in Cuba might — the information is in the public domain — but I doubt that Alejo Vargas knows much about U.S. naval capability.”
“You hope he doesn’t, because if he does, they might launch before the cruisers get in range.”
Tater Totten nodded affirmatively.
“This Grafton, I’ve heard that he goes off half-cocked, doesn’t obey orders, isn’t a team player.”
“I don’t know who said that, but Jake Grafton is the best we have. War is his profession. Alejo Vargas is an amateur playing at war — there is a vast difference.”
“Grafton has enemies.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“What if the Cubans launch their missiles and the cruisers miss?”
“Then the shit will really be in the fan, Mr. President. Americans will die, a lot of them. You’ll have to decide how much of Cuba you want to wipe off the face of the earth.”
“We’re going to hold a news conference to reply to Vargas this afternoon.”
“I wouldn’t mention biological weapons, if I were you,” Tater Totten advised. “Let your audience assume the Cuban missiles still have nuclear warheads. Germs scare people more than bombs, perhaps because they are invisible. And we’ve lived with the bomb for fifty years.”
The president pursed his lips thoughtfully.
Autrey James, Petty Officer Third Class, USN, always watched the ocean from his station in the door of the helicopter. It was a point of pride with him. He once spotted two fishermen whose boat had sunk off Long Island and was given a medal and had his name and photograph in the newspapers, but the part of that adventure that he remembered best was his grandmother’s reaction when she read of his exploits. “You save people, Autrey, what a marvelous profession!” Grandmom’s comment somehow said it all for Autrey James; whenever his helo was airborne, he watched the ocean. Maybe someday he would save another life.