“And what prompted Ojeda to do this?”
“The economy, the miserable living standards, among other things. But the execution of General Eduardo Echeverria Ontiveros appears to be the real spade that lit this fire.” The DCI could see recognition on the NSA’s face. “Castro was none too happy with his support of that Russian after the hijacking, you remember.”
How could he ever forget? His baptism by fire. And the forced demise of the general, one of the more pragmatic and capable commanding officers the Cubans had, was easily reason enough to foment a revolt. Good soldiers were loyal to good, competent leaders, and equally disdainful of deskbound commanders who passed judgment upon them and their actions. Ontiveros might not have been a friend in the eyes of Cuba’s neighbor to the north, but he certainly was to the men who had served under him.
“And what do we get from this? I mean other than a new leadership in Cuba…if the coup succeeds.”
“It will succeed,” Merriweather said with an arrogant confidence, as though a suggestion that any other outcome was possible was somehow blasphemous. “And we were able to choose the new leadership.”
“Choose?” Visions of Panama after Noriega flashed in the NSA’s mind. “How so?”
“Bud, it’s not like that,” the President interjected. “It’s not some insertion of a puppet regime. The rebels agreed to accept civilian leadership drawn from the exile community here.”
“And how were they selected?” Bud asked.
“It was logical to choose members of the group contacted by the Cubans to serve in an interim government,” the DCI explained. “I brokered the arrangements personally with Jim Coventry.”
He’s “Jim” and I’m still “James.” I see… “You told the secretary of state, but not me?” Bud sat back and blew out an exasperated breath. “Who else is in the loop?”
“That’s it, until you brief Secretary Meyerson,” Merriweather said, passing a task rightly his own to the NSA. “We are going to need certain assistance from the military very shortly.”
The “low” in low risk was rapidly losing its accuracy in describing what the NSA was being told. “Assistance.”
Merriweather nodded. “Greg will fill you in after the presentation.”
Drummond gave a courteous nod when his boss looked his way but said nothing. His place in this had been made perfectly clear without explanation.
“And the purpose of this presentation?” Bud inquired, motioning to the case before the DCI.
The President shifted forward in his chair. “Validation. I insisted that we have some proof that the coup could succeed beyond just the planning stages.”
Someone was thinking half-smart, Bud thought. The Man was no slouch in the brains department. Maybe he’d looked at this all carefully enough to ensure that nothing stupid was being done. Maybe, he thought, looking as the DCI reached into the case. Hopefully.
“Mr. President, are you ready?” Merriweather saw the chief executive nod, an anticipatory smile on his face, and laid out a series of four twelve-by-twelve-inch photographs.
Bud leaned forward, as did the President after putting on the reading glasses he had come to hate.
“Sir, these are images from a KH-12 pass two days ago,” the DCI began. “All four are of the military airfield near Santa Clara in the central part of Cuba. The first two are shots from about forty-nine degrees above the horizon. Distance is one hundred and seventy miles.” Merriweather directed the President’s attention to a line of aircraft obvious in the picture. “These are MiG Twenty-threes, all operational. This angle shows clearly their lineup, all on three good sets of landing gear.”
Bud studied the images with his head and body cocked to the right. The shots were clear, with only a hint of clouds that had been digitally removed, he suspected. “These are a combination IR and visible?”
“Correct,” the DCI answered. He noticed the President shoot a quizzical look his way. “Sir, this is somewhat of a hybrid photograph. The satellite, as it came over the horizon, focused both its visible light sensors, the cameras, and the heat-sensitive receptors, what is called imaging infrared, on the airfield. Pictures, if you will, were taken by both systems in sync, then, once the images were downlinked, NPIC — that’s the National Photographic Interpretation Center — processed them together to enhance the portions of the visible light photos that were degraded by cloud cover and other atmospherics.”
“I see,” the President said. “Go on.”
The DCI jumped right back in. “The second pair of images are from a ninety-degree aspect — straight overhead. It’s a wider view of the airfield, so the same aircraft are visible in relation to the other facilities.”
“What are these and these?” the President asked, pointing with his pen to two groups of what he surmised were aircraft.
“These objects nearest the maintenance hangar, here, are cannibalized MiGs. They’ve had to strip perfectly good aircraft to keep the others up and flying.”
“What’s their rate of removal from service been?” Bud asked.
Merriweather turned to Drummond. “Wasn’t it fifty percent over the previous two years?”
“That’s right,” the DDI confirmed. “At that rate they’d—”
“That point is moot,” the DCI interrupted.
Another look was exchanged between Drummond and Bud, this one not hinting at anything friendly or pleasant.
“And the others, sir, are something we’ll touch on in a few minutes.” Merriweather motioned to the Oval Office’s television and video player, which he already moved to a position where the group, other than Bud, could watch it unobstructed. The NSA would have to look over his shoulder to see what was going on. “Before that, though, are these.”
The President noted that the four photos the DCI had just laid before him corresponded in views to the ones just covered up. Bud noticed this, too, and something else. Damn.
“Sir, these were taken from the same KH-12 just over an hour ago. Look carefully at the front of the aircraft in the low-angle views.”
What Merriweather wanted the President to see was obvious. All twelve of the MiGs, while appearing intact, were nose-down on the tarmac. Some had odd-looking bulges in the area aft of the cockpit.
“What was done here?” the President asked. “It looks like the front landing gear is gone, but I don’t see any other damage.” He looked alternately at Bud and the DCI.
“Bud, you have extensive BDA experience from your Nam days, right?”
“Right.” The word was spoken flat and quickly. He would have preferred no part in the validation of this, but that wish was now out the window. “Mr. President, what you see before you is artwork.” Bud swallowed imperceptibly.
“Explain.”
Both Merriweather’s and Drummond’s eyes were on him, though each subtly expressed very different emotions. The DDI’s showed empathy; the DCI’s, satisfaction.
“What has happened is the same thing the Viet Cong sappers did when they snuck onto Tahn Son Nhut airbase back in ‘69. The aircraft’s nose wheels have been severed, actually the entire strut. Apparently the rebels were able to get their own people close enough to place a small amount of explosives on the upper portion of each strut. It can be placed up in the wheel well with a simple timer so that no one would notice it unless they took a real close look. That probably gave them time to get away or do other damage.”