Ojeda split his force into three groups as they approached Juragua, the last trace of daylight just a reddish-orange sliver on the horizon. One group of seventy moved east through the abandoned warehouses a mile from the objective. From there they would set up a hasty defense if any loyalists should approach from the north once the operation began. The second group, consisting of fifty men and the only heavy weapons — two mortars — the rebels had carried with them, approached along the beach, and positioned themselves to provide support for the main group. That force, 180 men under Colonel Ojeda’s personal command, arrayed themselves in the jungle a mile west of the objective. They were split into sixty-man groups as planned, each with their own specific task. Once all were in position, there was but one act remaining before the show would begin.
“Pilgrim, this is Toolbox,” Antonio said into the SATCOM radio’s handset. Ojeda was ten feet from him, scanning the approach to the plant through the NVGs.
“Toolbox, we copy,” Mike Healy responded from Langley, a single satellite “bounce” from the jungles of southern Cuba.
“Pilgrim, we are in position. Awaiting signal information.”
“Copy, Toolbox. Your signal will come from Raptor. He will be airborne CP and can provide assistance from above.” Healy knew that Paredes would be aware of just what Raptor was. “Gambler will be your visitors. Due in on a no-wait warning from Raptor. Sandman will be eye in the sky. All your communications should go through Raptor once the operation commences.”
“Pilgrim, I copy.” Antonio noted the information mentally and expected to switch to the alternate net that would put him in contact with Raptor.
“Toolbox, we have a change in plans to inform you of.”
“Go ahead, Pilgrim.”
“Your original guests will no longer be able to make the party due to circumstances beyond our control.”
Unable? “Pilgrim, that is…that can be a problem.” Ojeda was expecting to turn power over to a civilian government headed by the CFS exiles. What the hell would he do now that they weren’t coming? And why weren’t they coming? “This was all arranged to avoid a power struggle.”
“Toolbox,” a different voice came on. It was Secretary of State James Coventry. “We are trying to arrange for alternate leadership, but it might take time.”
“Time,” Antonio said a bit too loud. He turned his body away as eyes locked on him. “If there is a power vacuum after this is over, we could end up with a fight for leadership that could leave Cuba with something as bad as it just got rid of. There are still opportunists in the military, even among the rebels. Not all of them are as honest as Ojeda.”
There was no reply immediately. The silence made Antonio realize what he’d just suggested without intending to do so. His head turned back to the colonel. Could he do it? “Pilgrim, I have an idea.”
“We thought so, Toolbox.”
The unmarked white van pulled up to the gate and was met by a stern-looking Air Force guard. The Cape was an Air Force installation, albeit one with more public access than most, but the two weeks before an entirely military shuttle mission always saw increased security.
“Your purpose, gentlemen?”
Chris Testra produced his FBI shield, as did Freddy Sanz. The guard examined them and their faces with a shine of his flashlight. He had been told to expect them and further told not to question them about what they were there to do.
“Very good. I have you on my list. You can follow the signs to Flight Control Road. Turn left there.”
“Thanks,” Testra said, reaching to drop the van into gear.
“Hold it, Chris.” Sanz pointed through the windshield to the fence — more specifically to a sign on the fence. “You know, it might be kinda fun.”
Testra turned to the guard. “Hey. Mind if we borrow that for a while?”
No questions, the guard remembered. That also implied no arguments. “Be my guest.”
The Agency Learjet landed at the Cape just after a vaguely similar aircraft bearing the markings of the United States Navy. Both taxied to a seldom-used tarmac south of the single runway and stopped a hundred feet apart. A white van with two men standing in front of it was waiting in the same area. In less than a minute the passengers of both jets and the men at the van were standing together.
“I’m Greg Drummond, Deputy Director, Intelligence, of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
Sanz nudged his partner.
“Yes, the CIA,” Drummond confirmed, noticing the gesture. “You must be agents Testra and Sanz.”
The two Miami agents shook the DDI’s hand and those of the other two people.
“Art Jefferson, L.A. office. This is Frankie Aguirre.”
“Hi,” Frankie said, nodding to the Miami representatives of the Bureau.
“Well, we have some bad guys to nail,” Drummond said. “We need the same thing from both of them. You two”—the DDI pointed at Testra and Sanz—“will take the real bad boys into custody once we have the evidence we need. Jefferson and Aguirre here will get what I need from the second target But I will handle him. None of you are to be involved with that. Clear?”
They all nodded.
“Jefferson, you have the tape?”
“Right here,” Art said. “And something to play it on.”
“Good.” He looked to the Miami agents. “And I trust you have the equipment we need?”
“Right here,” Sanz said, touching the hard case on the ground with his foot.
Greg Drummond smiled, feeling an anticipation he hadn’t felt for a very long time. “Good. This is what we’re going to do.”
The Pave Hawk backed out of its final tanking twenty-five miles off the coast and turned north, heading for the beach southeast of Cienfuegos.
“Major, Raptor on the radio.”
“Switch me over,” Sean said. He left his black titanium helmet on his lap, next to the MP5SD4, and pushed the boom mic against his lips. “Raptor, this is Gambler. Go ahead.”
“Gambler, we have a thumbs-up from Toolbox.” It was Colonel Cadler, twenty miles west in the AC-130U. The drawl was unmistakable, even after traveling more than forty thousand miles through space. He would be acting as the central coordinator of air and land actions for the operation about to begin.
“Roger, Raptor. We’ll be feet dry in fifteen.”
“Sandman shows a clear air plot. You and me are the only things flying.”
“Roger that, Raptor. Glad to hear it.”
“Fingers crossed, Gambler.”
“Fingers crossed, sir.” Sean heard the radio switch back to intercom. “Cho, she’s all yours. I’m going on my body mic.”
“Yes, sir, Major. Fingers crossed.”
“You, too.” Sean removed the headset and inserted his radio earpiece before pulling his helmet on. The attached NVGs, flipped upward to allow for unobstructed vision, made his head want to tilt forward. “Mikey. Chuck. Check the SPIE rigs again.”
Antonelli and Makowski had the no-snag duffels containing the SPIE rigs setting between their legs. A steel oval ring, which would attach to the twin connection points under the Pave Hawk, stuck through the cinched opening of each bag. The two troopers tested the spring-loaded safety bar on each oval, letting it snap back after depression several times. A thumbs-up told the major everything was a go.