“I still haven’t done anything illegal,” Merriweather protested.
“No, but the things you said about the President won’t do anything for your reputation. You won’t be able to find a job teaching shop in high school.”
“So if I resign, that tape gets lost.”
The DDI tipped his head a bit, a few teeth showing. “Looks like you don’t need it explained to you.”
Merriweather drew in and let out a huge breath. “This is blackmail.”
“You really are smart.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because the country doesn’t need another scandal just because you led the President into a corner,” Drummond explained. “The President doesn’t need it, either.”
The DCI’s head shook. “All right. We do it your way. Lose the tape, you naive little boy.”
“I prefer the term ‘loyal,’ if you don’t mind,” Drummond said, before leaving his former boss alone to ponder the meaning of the word, as well as his future.
EPILOGUE
PASSAGES
It was a sight the citizens of Havana could scarcely remember. Not since Batista had a leader of their nation appeared on the balcony overlooking the plaza without a military uniform on. For their new leader, too, it was an unfamiliar experience. Yet it was a statement, possibly the strongest, that the interim president of the nation of Cuba could make. People, he was saying by shedding his uniform, would rule the country. Not the military. Not ideologues. People.
“It was a fine speech,” Antonio Paredes said as President Hector Ojeda returned from the balcony.
“I do not give speeches, Papa Tony,” Ojeda objected. “I simply speak.”
It was a lesson Antonio wished he could transfer to every politician across the straits. But then this man was not a politician. He was a patriot. There was a vast difference, Antonio had learned.
“Fine words, then, Señor Presidente.”
Ojeda did the strangest thing in reaction to the CIA officer’s revised observation: He smiled. “Becoming accustomed to the title will take some time. Rank is an easier concept to grasp.”
“I doubt you will have any problems adjusting.”
Ojeda accepted the comment hopefully. “And you, Papa Tony, I owe you…the country owes you many thanks for what you have done.”
“Many people made this day possible,” Antonio added humbly.
“Many lives given,” Ojeda continued. “Cubans. Americans.”
Every great victory had its cost. Often that was measured in human terms. This momentous achievement was no different.
“What will you do first, Señor Presidente?” Antonio asked, moving the conversation to the future.
“It is not a difficult thing to decide,” Ojeda said. “I have learned from the chaos and the glory as new countries were born from their old selves. I will simply let the people have a voice. They will have the opportunity to send me on my way.”
Antonio chuckled. “You’ve learned well from our example, I would say. But, remember, any American could sit for hours and complain about what is wrong with the country.”
“And at night they go to sleep knowing that the next day they can rise to continue their complaining,” Ojeda said, turning the American penchant for nay saying into a beacon of stability.
“I’ve never quite seen it that way.”
“I did not expect you would,” President Hector Ojeda said with a very knowing grin. “You were looking from the inside.”
Antonio Parades knew what the presidente meant. Perspective truly was everything.
He was breaking his own rule. Sort of.
“You’ll like it,” Art promised.
Frankie eyed him with doubt, the chili-covered monstrosity cradled in both hands. “I want you to know you’re the only person I would do this for, and only then because you have a gun.”
“You agreed, Aguirre,” Art reminded his partner, motioning for her to take a bite.
“The game was rigged.” She sneered as the thing approached her lips.
“Fair and square, partner. Four of a kind beats a full house.”
“Four twos,” Frankie pointed out. She had to lose the hand to that! And now she was Art Jefferson’s Pink’s surrogate for the next six months, until his next allowed venture into cholesterol land. If he had a craving, she had to vicariously fill it. “There’s something about this in that Geneva thing.”
“Eat.”
Frankie closed her eyes and opened wide, taking the first gooey bite. She chewed the bacon-chili cheese dog tentatively at first, then her eyes opened as she began to experience the taste that was unique to Pink’s. “Hey,” she said through the first bite, “this is pretty good.”
Art beamed knowingly. “You just wouldn’t listen, would you? See what you’ve been missing?”
“Yeah. I guess so.” Frankie took another bite, savoring this one more than the first. It was getting better! “This was the best bet I ever lost.”
“Yeah, I… Hey! You’re not supposed to be enjoying this. I mean… I’m supposed to be… Not you…” Art leaned against the counter, a frustrated, hungry man. “Oh, forget it.”
Frankie winked at her partner and bit again into the deliciously messy conglomeration.
“Seltzer, Mr. Jefferson?” the clerk inquired.
Art looked over to the kid. “No. Another bacon-chili cheese dog for the lady. And hurry. Can’t you see I’m hungry?”
Major Sean Graber sat staring at the maroon carpet, the words of the chaplain echoing throughout the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center Chapel. His eyes came up only when he knew that the padre was reaching the point in the memorial service that required him to do so.
It was a show of respect for comrades fallen. For his men.
“Captain Christopher Herald Buxton. Sergeant Charles Steven Makowski. Sergeant Gerald Morris Jones. Sergeant Alfred George Vincent.” The chaplain paused, closing the book that held the names of Delta’s departed troopers. “The Great Jumpmaster watches over our comrades now. Let us not grieve over their loss, but, rather, let us use them as an example as we cross the next barrier, meet our next foe, defend freedom, and destroy tyranny. Let us not grieve, but let us not forget. Amen.”
“Hoo-ah,” the assembled troopers responded.
Sean stood with Colonel Cadler and walked to the back of the chapel, meeting each family member as they departed. It was a private service, intended only for the families and the men of Delta. Despite what the chaplain had said, it was a time to grieve. But it was also, as he professed, a time to remember. In a way, that was more painful than the grieving.
The last family member drifted toward the cars lining Fort Bragg’s Ardennes Road. Sean walked away from the chapel, stopping near a stand of pines that flanked the hallowed building. Cadler joined him there a minute later.
“Major.”
Sean looked around, smiling at the colonel, thinking before saying what he wanted to say. “We lost too many on this one, sir.”
Cadler looked at the damp, needle-covered ground, his lips pouting. “One is too many, Major. Ten is too many. But missions don’t come with a set loss ratio. Y’all know that as good as I.”
It was a correct statement, but that still didn’t change what Sean was feeling. Four of his own men were gone. Three from the 160th. And Anderson. Being a Delta trooper was his life. It was all he had wanted to do from the minute the unit was formed. But now he found himself fearing what came with Delta’s hazardous mission profile. Death was no longer just a possibility. It was all too real. He could accept it for himself, but for men working for him? For soldiers who followed his lead? He no longer knew if this was for him, and that doubt itself, he believed, made him ineffective as a Delta trooper.