Stiff keyed the intercom. “Assholes,” he roared at Sailor Karnow. “They are all stupid fucking assholes.”
“I hear that,” said Sailor, sighing. “I’ve known it for years. I should have joined the WNBA.”
Toad Tarkington led the procession along the dark corridor of La Cabana prison. Apparently the power had not yet been restored after the high-voltage towers fell. Everyone following Toad had a flashlight.
The corridors were alive with echoing sound, shouts, curses, doors clanging, screams, shots.
“Hurry,” Grafton shouted, and ran toward the shouts.
As he suspected, the mob was in the building. As he and Toad rounded a corner, their flashlights fell on a solid wall of humanity dragging two uniformed officers. Carmellini shouted. The human wall halted.
“This is Ocho Sedano,” Carmellini shouted, “Hector’s brother. He is here to free Hector.”
The man dragging a fat officer by the collar of his uniform demanded, “Who are you?” Obviously drunk, this man had the commandante’s pistol in his hand, but he didn’t raise it or point it. The flashlights were partially blinding him, but he could still see the front end of Toad’s M-16.
“We are here at El Ocho’s request.” Carmellini proclaimed loudly. “He has asked for our help to free his brother Hector.”
The mob moved forward, probably in response to a surging push from the people behind.
“Give us the officers,” Jake said to Carmellini, “and we will bring Hector from his cell.” Carmellini shouted the message in Spanish.
The members of the mob didn’t like it, but they were facing six rifles in a narrow stone corridor. The people at the head of the mob released the officers and turned to shout at those behind them.
The marines grabbed the two officers and pushed them away along the corridor.
Carmellini talked earnestly to the officers. “They will lead us there,” he told Jake. “Colonel Santana arrived an hour ago. He was with the commandante until just a few minutes ago.”
“Hurry,” Jake Grafton urged. “The mob is out of control.” He had drawn the .357 Magnum he wore in a holster around his waist and now had it in his right hand.
“Showtime One Oh Two, Strike, the air force is having trouble confirming the location of all their machines.”
“Strike, this guy is hanging it out, begging for it, trolling right over the damn city looking for some white hats to zap. Are you gonna cry at the funeral after he kills some of our people?”
This comment was of course grossly out of line: Stiff Hardwick was a mere lieutenant — an O-3—and the decisions in Strike were being made by an officer with the rank of commander — O-5—or even captain — O-6. He was going to be in big trouble when he got back to the ship, but he didn’t care. The primary object of war was to kill the enemy, and by God, the son of a bitch was right there. He’d deal with the peckerheads later.
Another minute passed. They were over the heart of Havana now. The oily black slash of Havana Harbor was quite prominent, as were the dozens of fires that now surrounded the walls of the old La Cabana fortress.
“This guy is starting a turn,” Sailor told Stiff, referring of course to the bogey.
Carlos Corrado should have been searching the night sky over Havana for the planes he knew were here, but he wasn’t. He was only human. He was looking at the red warning light and listening to the buzz that told him that a hostile fighter’s radar was illuminating his aircraft.
The light and tone had been on for five minutes now. The miracle was that Carlos Corrado was still alive. Five minutes in front of an aggressive American fighter pilot was about six lifetimes … and still the American hadn’t pulled the trigger!
Carlos didn’t know why, but he suspected the reason had something to do with the fact they were tooling over the rooftops of Havana.
Ocho Sedano and the Americans ran through the corridors of La Cabana Prison until they came to a massive steel gate. It was closed but unlocked; they used the commandante’s keys to lock it behind them. Then they entered a cellblock full of men screaming to be freed. Hundreds of arms reached through the bars, trying to reach the Americans.
The guards led them to Hector, who was in a cell in a corridor off the main cellblock. “They have no key to the cell,” Carmellini told Jake.
“Use C-4. Blow it,” the admiral said.
Hector reached through the bars and got his hands on Ocho. They hugged while Jake Grafton held the flashlight and Tommy Carmellini set the explosive.
“Have you seen Santana?” Carmellini asked Hector.
“Yes. He was here.”
“Where is he now?”
“He heard you coming and ran.”
When the plastic explosive blew the lock apart on Hector’s cell, Ocho jerked the door open and hugged him fiercely. “I apologize, Hector,” he said. “Please forgive me.”
Jake Grafton dragged them apart. “There is no time,” he shouted, and pushed them toward the corridor.
The sounds of the mob tearing at the steel bars that barred the way into the cell block could be heard above the shouts of the men in the cells.
Toad led his party the other way. Another door, precious seconds wasted while the officers fumbled for a key, then they were through and going up a stairway. More stairs, then along a long, dark corridor lit only by flashlights.
As they rounded a turn someone ahead fired a shot at them. The bullet spanged off a wall, and miraculously failed to connect with human flesh.
Suddenly sure, Tommy Carmellini told Jake, “It’s Santana. You go on. I’ll get the bastard.”
“We don’t have time for personal vendettas,” Jake Grafton snapped.
“I’m a civilian, Grafton. I can take care of myself. Go on!”
Jake led his party onward.
When they came out onto the roof the Osprey’s position lights and flashing anticollision light revealed a crowd of at least three hundred people. They completely surrounded the Osprey and helo and the marines with rifles who held them off. The pilots must have shut down the engines due to the large number of people nearby. Lieutenant Colonel Eckhardt walked back and forth behind the marines, an imposing martial figure if ever there was one. Fortunately no one in the crowd seemed to be armed.
Jake and Toad forced their way through the crowd.
It was Ocho who stepped in front of the crowd and began to speak. “This is my brother Hector, the next president of Cuba.”
The crowd cheered lustily.
“I am El Ocho. I wish to know if you love Cuba?”
“Sí!” they roared.
“Do you believe in Cuba?”
“Sí!”
“Will you fight for Cuba?”
“Sí!”
“Will you follow me and put Hector Sedano in the presidential palace?”
“Sí! Sí! Sí!” The crowd breathed the word over and over and swarmed around Ocho.
“Come,” said Jake Grafton, and pulled Hector toward the Osprey.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As Jake Grafton and the others climbed the stairs toward the roof of La Cabana Prison, Tommy Carmellini doused his flashlight and held it in his left hand. He stood in the darkness waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.
He had a pistol that the marines aboard ship had given him, a 9-mm, that felt cold and comforting in his grip. He closed his eyes, listened to the cheers and shouts from the roof, waited until he heard the chopper and Osprey get airborne.
Finally the corridors of the old fortress grew quiet.