“Good,” Weinberg said, “then she will be the gatekeeper for all information and intelligence we generate. She will lead our negotiations with the new regime. The secretary has asked me to apologize for her late arrival. She’s coming from an emergency meeting with the president on Key West.”
“That’s one, what’s number two?” the admiral asked, a wreath of smoke now encircling his head.
“Well. If you’ll open your briefing books,” Weinberg said, “you’ll see that tab one contains a series of photographs taken by our U-2s and Predators over the last week or so. The photos are of an island here, off the coast of Manzanillo, on the southeast coast of Cuba. Please take a minute to study them.”
“Never anything brief about a briefing book,” Admiral Howell muttered, turning the pages, skipping ahead.
As the men leafed through their books, Hawke opened his case and withdrew a small package containing an audio cassette. The radioman aboard Blackhawke had handed it to him as he boarded his seaplane. He assured Hawke it would be interesting.
“The rebels’ base of operations is called Telaraсa,” Weinberg said. “Tab two contains precisely detailed building-by-building layouts of the entire compound.”
“How’d we come by that?” one of the admirals asked.
“Easy,” Tate interrupted. “They recruit local labor, we supply it. We have at least three members of the construction crew on our payroll. The diagrams in your books are the product of their latest intelligence. Two, maybe three days old.”
“Let’s move on,” Admiral Howell said.
“That large white structure you see at the mouth of the river,” Weinberg continued, “is a submarine pen. Its dimensions tell me that it is precisely wide enough to accommodate the extraordinary beam of a Borzoi. Commander Hawke, would you like to speak to this?”
“Certainly,” Alex said. “Six months ago, the Cuban rebels bought an extremely sophisticated Borzoi-class submarine from a pair of ex-Russian submarine officers, now arms dealers. Two Borzoi submarines were completed in late 1991 using purloined stealth technology. Borzoi utilizes a radical delta wing design, twin hulls forming a V-shape, twenty silos on each hull. It has a retractable conning tower for minimum drag whilst submerged. Fastest sub on earth, by a factor of three, biggest payload, virtually invisible to existing methods of detection.”
“Don’t tell me this thing can fly, too,” Howell said.
“Pretty fair description of what she does underwater,” Alex replied.
“Christ. Have they taken delivery?” Tate asked.
“I believe they have, yes,” Alex said.
“Do you have any proof of that?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps, did you say?” the CIA man said, coating the word with gelatinous sarcasm.
“Yes, Mr. Tate, I said perhaps,” Alex said. Before this was over, he and Mr. Tate were going to have a very private conversation.
Seeing the tension, Admiral Howell coughed into his fist, and Weinberg tapped the map with his pointer.
“We know they’ve built a sub pen, and we know they’ve purchased a Borzoi boomer,” Weinberg said. “What we don’t know is whether or not they’ve actually taken delivery.”
“From the tone and manner of their opening salvo,” Admiral Howell said, “ordering us out of Gitmo, I’d guess these boys were packing some serious heat. In all likelihood, the sub has been delivered.”
“Perhaps,” Alex said, looking at Tate, “you are right, Admiral. This little package might confirm your supposition. If I may?” The admiral nodded.
Alex pushed his chair back, got up, and walked around the table to Howell, handing him the small package.
“Audio cassette,” Alex said.
“Of what, Commander?” the admiral asked.
“Admiral, my yacht is equipped with underwater towed array sonar. Since we frequent ports and coastlines where neither your Navy nor mine is welcome, we record everything we hear. If it’s sufficiently interesting, we courier it to Washington or London. My radioman handed me that cassette this afternoon just before I took off. Your lads should give a listen to it. My man thinks our SONUS picked up the signature sound of a Russian Mark III torpedo’s screws. But you fellows are the experts.”
“Thank you,” Howell said, and instantly an aide was at his side. He took the package and left the room.
“Commander,” the admiral said, “when and where did your boy pick this up?”
“At 0220 hours, sir,” Alex said. “It was recorded while we were lying at anchor one mile due west of Staniel Cay.”
“What the hell would the sub be shooting at in the Exumas?”
“No idea, sir. A small American sport-fishing boat suffered a catastrophic explosion and sank at precisely the same time. I heard the explosion two miles away. Upon reaching the bridge I observed a fiery debris field. Why they’d waste a torpedo on such a target is beyond me. But I’m almost positive they sank that fishing boat.”
“Shakedown cruise,” the admiral said. “The Exumas aren’t that far from the southeast coast of Cuba. Target practice. Tell your boy we appreciate his vigilance, Commander Hawke.”
Hawke nodded.
“To continue,” Weinberg said, “our mission objective is dear. We must neutralize or destroy that submarine and its missiles.”
“I vote for destroy,” Admiral Howell said, and everyone around the table chuckled. Weinberg smiled and resumed.
“If I know the president, Admiral, that submarine has an extremely short life expectancy,” Weinberg said. “The president and his cabinet are meeting in Key West as we speak, formulating a precise response. There is a lot of pressure to invade coming from the Pentagon. I have my own opinions on that, however—”
“What is your opinion?” The question came from the lantern-jawed man two seats to Alex’s left. General Charley Moore, U.S. Marines. There was no question about General Moore’s opinion, Alex could see in the hard set of the cold blue eyes.
“This isn’t Panama, General Moore,” Weinberg said. “When we went in to extract Noriega, the Panamanians were dancing in the streets.”
“That is correct,” Moore said, leaning back in his chair with his fingers laced behind his head. “Hell, I put four of my boys on every street corner of every intersection in Panama City. The neighborhood women adopted every last one of ’em. Fed ’em so damn much, I had to put an ad in the newspaper begging them to stop. My troops were all outgrowing their uniforms!”
“That will not be a problem in Cuba, General Moore,” Weinberg said, allowing himself a small smile. “I would like to say that the Cuban people are a nation of sheep. But that would be incorrect. They are a nation of ostriches. The state has them so thoroughly terrorized that—”
“Yes, but here’s the real problem,” Tate interjected. “In Cuba, you’ve got—”
“Mr. Tate, with all due respect, excuse me all to hell,” Admiral Howell said. “But it’s getting a little windy in here. Any damn fool can come up with the problem. I want the goddamn solution! Everybody’s insights into Cuban and Panamanian politics are goddamn fascinating. But this is not the time for it. Now, I am a mission-oriented kind of fella. The president wants action now, not fucking discourse. Do I make myself clear?”
Alex breathed deeply and closed his eyes. Thank God, Howell was seizing control of this bloody thing. He had been on the verge of making some excuse and walking out. He could barely tolerate these saber-rattling ego fests when he was at his best. Today, with Vicky’s loss spiking every thought, his tolerance was at zero.
Admiral Howell looked around the table, sucking down great volumes of smoke, waiting for a response.
“Find that sub, sink it, then invade the island, kill the bad guys, and put a decent, honest man in the president’s office,” General Moore said. Howell smiled.