“Cubans helped in the security?” Bud asked. Merriweather met the look the NSA shot his way this time.
“Right.”
“They had opportunity, Anthony,” Bud said. “I doubt you’ll argue that Castro had the motivation.”
How could he? The DCI knew his history better than most. The Cuban leader had been furious when the Soviets pulled out their missiles, at one point even demanding that they fire the weapons at the United States if an invasion appeared imminent. Castro’s knowledge of the withdrawal before it occurred had been alleged, even substantiated, by former Soviet Politburo members. Why wouldn’t Castro have wanted to humiliate Khrushchev, and get his hands on a very big bargaining chip in the process?
“Motive and opportunity, Anthony. And a smoking gun,” Bud said.
The DCI could say nothing. His parry had been negated and his thrust had dissipated to nothingness. Could it really be? “That’s pretty thin smoke you’re blowing.”
“Thin, my ass!” Bud exploded. “You want to wait ‘til he has an opportunity to use it?”
“If it actually exists,” Merriweather shot back. He wasn’t going to go so easily. Couldn’t go easily. “All you have is a recording alleging to portray the events you described. It’s a good story, I’ll grant you, but it’s more fable than thesis. And the names in the graveyard— they’re Russian. So what? How many Russians have served in Cuba? Maybe a plane went down, or a truck turned over. Why don’t you try and confirm that they aren’t just a platoon of infantrymen killed in a crash?”
He would have to do that, the NSA knew. But the reality of that was not a hindrance; it was an opportunity. How to do it was the problem that was mated to the opportunity. How would he do it? They couldn’t just ask the Russians for the information, because that would likely lead to a revelation of what had been discovered. Not good timing, telling the Russians that the Cubans had one of their old nukes when their radars were down. Plus there were enough hard-liners in government that any revelation to the Russian president might find its way through them to Castro. One more stab at the imperialist West. And if this turned out to be a real threat, what would Castro do if he discovered that his enemies to the north were aware of the missile? Use it or lose it. No, anticipating that it was credible, their best defense at the moment was secrecy. To get the Russians to open up their records was just not… Of course!
“A good idea, Anthony. That way we’ll have corroboration.”
What? “How…?”
Bud explained for just a minute.
“You can’t just go off and use my people to play your games! I sure as hell won’t authorize it, and that means your only hope is with the—”
“With the Man,” Bud completed the sentence with his own twist. “But first he has to be filled in.” The NSA stood. “You want to join me, Anthony?”
This ride to the White House, though silent and filled with contemplation of a very serious matter, would be one of the most enjoyable Bud DiContino had ever taken. Welcome to my turf, Mr. Director.
Two BTR-60PB armored personnel carriers led the way along the road. It was paved, much to the delight of the convoy’s commanding officer. His unit had been running supplies since the opening of hostilities, and most of those runs had been on the overused dirt tracks that cut through the more vegetated, and less open, areas of the countryside. The cover he was thankful for, but the speed was a third, at best, of that which he could make on the paved surface.
This time, however, it had been not a decision of choice, but of necessity. The ten fully loaded tank trucks behind his escorting BTRs would have bogged down before passing through Cienfuegos. That was not the stretch of the journey that concerned him, though. It was the road he was on now. And he was running it under a bright moon.
“Lieutenant, the troops at the rear of the convoy report that one of the tankers has broken down.”
“Damn!” the lieutenant swore at the situation reported by his driver. “Leave it. Tell them to have the driver try and repair it. We must move on.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lieutenant, standing in the BTR’s open hatch, looked to the bright white ball that was sinking slowly toward the hills northwest of Cienfuegos and willed it to hurry into its rest for the night. Darkness was a convoy runner’s friend. Darkness and speed, he reminded himself, adding luck almost as an afterthought.
“Wait for the escorts to pass,” the sergeant told the gunners just in front of him. It was a perfectly laid ambush using just twenty men, though he could have done it with ten. The targets, after all, were like whales upon the beach.
The thirteen vehicles had been spotted an hour before by a two-man scout unit overwatching the refinery facilities at Los Guaos. Then there had been one more, but the disappearance of one vehicle was not to be worried about.
What was-approaching was plenty to make quite a noise.
“Ready…”
The lieutenant saw the flashes just an instant before he felt the hot sting on his right side. He turned that way but never completed the move, a second volley of machine-gun fire from the hillside ending his life and sending him sliding downward into the BTR. An RPG antitank rocket fired from close in on the opposite side of the road farther up finished off the vehicle itself, the HEAT warhead impacting just forward of the fuel tanks. The white-hot jet of explosive gasses was sufficient to ignite the normally stable diesel. The green vehicle disappeared into a ball of orange-yellow before anyone could get out.
The second BTR made it a bit farther, its driver jinking to the right away from the smoke trail he had seen swoop down on his commander’s vehicle. But the farthest he got was the soft shoulder of the two-lane highway. Another RPG came straight down at the BTR’s front and punched a hole directly into the driver’s compartment, incinerating the upper half of his body instantly and causing the vehicle to continue awkwardly over the roadside. It ended its roll at a nose-down attitude, its hatch-covered top exposed to the hillside. APCs, like all armored fighting vehicles, are lightly armored on top, the thickness in proportion to its thicker side armor. The BTR’s side armor was pathetic.
Two heavy machine guns sprayed the top of the BTR simultaneously from opposite sides of the road, opening its roof up like a sieve. A fire started quickly, followed by several small explosions as the soldiers’ ammo began to cook off in the heat. No one from either lead escort survived, a similar fate befalling the single BTR at the rear.
The convoy was doomed.
It took little time for the hunter squads to turn the long line of tank trucks into a burning snake of twisted metal. Several of the trucks, strangely, did not burn as furiously as the others, their refrigerated contents venting into the atmosphere as a river of fire flowed down the slightly inclined road from the front to the back.
“Done,” the sergeant said. “Let’s get…”
The sound came from behind. It had been masked by the roar of the raging inferno below, and smoke had obscured any view that might have warned them. The sergeant saw it first and wanted to run, but it was no use. They had killed everyone below, but someone had obviously not died quickly enough.
“Bastards!” Major Orelio Guevarra screamed, his weapons officer in the front of the Mi-28 Havoc giving a thumbs-up at the sight before them on the FLIR display. “Destroy them, Chiuaigel!”