“I never wear lipstick,” she managed, her voice barely under control.
“It’s a good thing, too,” he said, his voice cracking.
The silence grew and grew.
“Well, I gotta go,” Toad finally said. “They wanna use this circuit to trade movies or something.”
“Yeah.”
“Vaya con Dios, baby.”
“You too, Toad-man.”
Toad found Jake Grafton in Combat huddled with Gil Pascal, the chief of staff. He listened to the conversation for a moment, then realized that the admiral was trying to assure himself that he had adequate forces to win. Tonight!
After a bit Jake turned toward Toad. “Let’s have your two cents,” he said.
“If we need anything, sir, it’s a bigger reserve. We have three V-22s with twenty-four marines each to go wherever they are needed. A while ago the CO of the carrier’s marine det asked if he and some of his people could get in on the fun. He called Kearsarge and found there is one extra Osprey. It’s being used as a backup to the first wave, but if it isn’t needed, then it’ll be an extra.”
Gil Pascal frowned. “The carrier’s marines haven’t been briefed,” he pointed out.
Jake glanced at Toad and raised one eyebrow.
“Sir, I was hoping you would let me go with them,” Tarkington replied cheerfully. “I’m as briefed as it’s possible to get.” Actually, as Ops, Tarkington wrote the plan.
“You’ve been planning to spring this on me all day, haven’t you?”
“I could take a satellite phone, give you a worm’s-eye view of the action, let you know if there is really a problem.”
“Did the marine det CO approach you with this marvelous idea, or did you approach him?”
Toad turned his eyes to the ceiling. “An officer I know well used to say, ‘You know me.’”
“I think I know that guy too,” Jake said, and chuckled. “Oh, all right, damn it — you can go. Gil and I will try to hold the fort without you. If the backup Osprey isn’t needed, you’ll be part of the cavalry. Tell the grunts to saddle up.”
The Spanish-speaking sailor who acted as an interpreter shook Ocho Sedano awake. “Ocho,” he said. “Ocho, a question has arisen. We wish to know if you are related to Hector Sedano.”
Ocho opened his eyes and focused on the interpreter, who appeared reasonably clear: His eyes were better, much better. He rolled over, then sat up in bed. He was still in sick bay aboard Hue City.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” said the American sailor.
“It is good to be alive,” Ocho whispered.
“Did you ever give up hope?”
“I suppose. I thought I would die, and was waiting for it. But I always wanted to live.”
The sailor grinned. This was the first American he had ever gotten to know, and he had a good grin, Ocho thought.
“The officers want to know,” the sailor said, “if you are related to Hector Sedano.”
“He is my brother.”
“I will tell them.”
Ocho nodded, then rubbed his head and stretched. He was hungry and thirsty. A glass of water was sitting on a rolling table beside the bed, so he drained it.
“May I have some food?”
“I will bring some.”
Ocho looked the sailor in the eyes. “I want to go back to Cuba. I should never have left.”
“I will tell them,” the sailor said, and left him there.
William Henry Chance and Tommy Carmellini argued with Toad about how many marines wearing CBW suits should go into the warhead factory with them. “Just Tommy and I,” Chance said. “The more people that are in there the greater the chance of an accident.”
“How are you going to get your gear in there?”
“An armload at a time. It will take a little longer, but with only two guys going in and out, this whole evolution will be safer.”
“What if the Cuban Army shows up while you’re working?”
“The marines can defend us until the place goes up.”
They were in a ready room under the flight deck dressing in a corner under the television set, which was showing a continuous briefing by the Air Intelligence types. Radio frequencies, threat envelopes, timing, call signs, weather, everything was on the tube.
Carmellini was paying close attention to the briefers, Chance was arguing with Toad. “And I’m not taking a rifle or hand grenades or rations or any of that combat crap.”
“A pistol, then.”
“Got my own. Don’t want two.”
“Why are you being so obstinate, Mr. Chance?”
Chance sat down heavily in one of the ready-room chairs.
“I guess I’ve got a bad feeling about this commando stuff,” he said. “Charging in decked out like Captain America with rifle in hand scares me silly. Everybody and his brother will start shooting, and with cultures above-ground in vulnerable containers …” He shivered. “If we sneak in in civilian clothes … well, that’s what I’m used to. This military stuff frightens me.”
“You’re going to look funny walking into a dairy in civilian clothes with flares on your shoulders if there are Cuban troops sitting around the place guarding the cows.”
“You’re right, I know.” Chance shrugged.
“Gonna be an adventure,” Tommy Carmellini tossed in.
“You guys are big boys,” Toad Tarkington said. “I’m not going to nursemaid you. But this isn’t a game — a lot of lives are at stake. If you screw this up and we gotta go back in there later and fix it, you guys better be dead. Don’t bother coming back.”
Toad said it matter-of-factly, as if he were discussing a payroll deduction. Chance suddenly felt small.
“Okay,” he said. “Two other guys in CBW suits. But I’m in charge. If I go down, Tommy is.”
“Fine,” said Toad Tarkington, and went to find an encrypted telephone.
Terror wasn’t going to be enough to keep Alejo Vargas in office. He knew that. He could put the fear of God in the little sons of bitches and keep it there, but to sleep nights in Fidel’s house he was going to have to govern the country, to give a little here, a little there, and so on. He was prepared to do that — he had watched Fidel manipulate these people all of his adult life.
Today he sat in his office at the Ministry of the Interior — he had had no time to move to the presidential palace — receiving the members of the Council of State, of which he was the president.
“Señor Ferrara, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
Ferrara was short, fat, and wheezed when he moved. He was a member of the Council of State and the minister of electric power. He dropped into a chair across the desk from Vargas and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Good day, Señor President.”
Colonel Santana handed Vargas Ferrara’s affidavit. Vargas merely glanced at the signature, then laid it in his top right-hand drawer with the others. He didn’t read it because he knew exactly what the affidavit contained — an emotional eyewitness account of the murder of Raúl Castro by Hector Sedano. Vargas and Santana had drafted the document this morning.
Before each member of the Council of State met with Vargas, Santana presented them with an affidavit for signature. Most intuitively understood that signatures were mandatory, and those that didn’t had the facts of life explained to them. So far, all had signed.
“I appreciate your support in this matter, Ferrara.”
“I will be frank with you, Vargas. That document means nothing.” He gestured toward the desk drawer. “You may be able to crack the whip in Havana, but the people do not support you. They want Hector Sedano in the presidential palace.”
“They will find a place in their heart for me.”