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  Finally satisfied, he stood and stretched, feeling the last vestiges of fatigue seep away. He glanced up at the tower, already illuminated with red light. Inside, the Air Boss and Mini Boss would be settling into their seats, staring down at Thor and his aircraft and waiting for the report from the steam catapult operators that all was ready. A thin wisp of steam was already rising from the narrow gauge track in front of him, evidence of power to the system.

  Thor grinned. The Air Boss held certain misconceptions about Marine pilots, prejudices that Thor liked to tweak at every opportunity. As the flight deck teemed with activity around him, Thor dropped down to the nonskid, assumed position, and whipped out a quick fifty push-ups.

  The exercise flushed the last traces of fatigue out of his body.

  Invigorated, he jumped to his feet and trotted over to the port side of the F/A-18. Clambering up the handhold and steps, he quickly settled into the cockpit. A technician followed him up, pulled the safeties on the ejection seat, and double-checked his harness.

  “You’re good to go. Major.” The Marine Corps technician nodded solemnly, barely visible in his bronze shirt on the moonlit deck.

  “Good hunting, sir.”

  Thor nodded. “Anytime, anywhere. Marine.”

  0410 Local (+5 GMT)

  TFCC

  “There he goes.” Tomboy pointed at the plat camera that showed the flight deck. Two JBDs, or jet blast deflectors, had popped up from the deck and were partially screening the raging afterburner fire spewing out of the Hornet’s tailpipes. They could see the dark figure of the catapult officer standing near the Hornet’s nose, the other technicians carefully clear of the red line delineating the flight deck area.

  As they watched, the overhead ceiling panels resonated with the harsh roar of the fighter’s engine. The sound built, then climbed an extra notch, rattling monitors, computers, and bulkheads alike. Finally, when it seemed impossible that the noise could get any louder, the Hornet started moving, slowly at first, then quickly accelerating to minimum airspeed of 135 knots. The catapult dragged the fighter down the flight deck to the bow, spewing a trail of steam behind it.

  Finally they heard the gentle thump, always too soft, that signified the shuttle had reached the end of its run.

  The Hornet disappeared from view for a moment as it lost altitude at the end of the carrier. It reappeared immediately, barely climbing as it struggled to remain airborne. As soon as it reached three hundred feet, it banked away from the carrier in a sharp right-hand turn.

  “I always feel better having CAP on station,” the admiral said. “If I know the Cubans, they’re going to blame this on us and put up a full combat spread. If they do, we’ll be ready for them.”

  0500 Local (+5 GMT)

  Southern Command Watch Center, Miami

  “You’ve got the feed from LINK?” the watch officer asked.

  The operations specialist nodded. “Jefferson just launched CAP. Two Hornets, on station in approximately ten minutes.”

  The watch officer nodded. He reached for the telephone, Whatever was going on down in the Caribbean was far above his pay grade. As much as he hated waking the admiral up, he disliked taking sole responsibility for it even more.

  0800 Local (+5 GMT)

  Coalition for Cuban Liberty, Miami fl

  Jorge Leyta watched the crowd surge and eddy around him.

  The protest was taking shape without any effort on his part will only help us, even if he does not wish to. The people, you see,” he said, gesturing to the growing throng, “they know. Only the Coalition has taken action real action and made sacrifices. Aguillar merely postures and talks. If he had his way, Cuba would become the fifty-first state.” He glanced sideways, noting how his words settled his aide’s thoughts. It was always so when he put his mind to it. That’s why leadership of the community was rightfully his, not his rival’s. “And the Americans, they have shot down a peaceful civilian aircraft. They killed my brother! Where now is this wonderful ‘normalization’ that Aguillar wants?”

  His aide turned his head sharply toward Leyta. “How sure are we? Can we be certain? The news reports say it was the Cuban government that shot down our aircraft.”

  Leyta’s mouth curled into an ugly arc. “And you believe what you hear on the news?” He shook his head. “No, there is no doubt in my mind.

  My brother” his voice caught for a moment; he drew in a deep breath and shivered slightly before it steadied” knew the risk he was taking. He is a hero, a martyr to our cause. And I will make certain that this government understands just how badly they have fucked up this time.”

  From the back of the crowd, Aguillar studied the swaggering man on the makeshift podium. How much did Leyta really understand about what had happened? Not much, not if this demonstration was any indication.

  Leyta had never understood political realities, never been able to accept that Cuba must-must-turn to America for support and security.

  He heard a high-pitched squeal as the television van to his right started its engine, the fan belt complaining loudly. The vehicle ground into gear, then edged slowly forward, parting the massive Hispanic crowd like the bow of a ship through water.

  “Senor Aguillar, any comments?”

  Aguillar turned toward the microphone availing demandingly to his left.

  “Senor Leyta has my deepest condolences on the tragic loss of his brother,” he began smoothly. “It is right that our community should turn out to mourn such a tragic” and unnecessary “loss of life.”

  The reporter holding the microphone edged closer. “Senor Leyta claims that the American government is responsible for his brother’s death.

  Is it your position as well that the government is lying to him about this tragedy?” The reporter lifted one bronzed hand to her face and smoothed the hair back from her eyes. “Or are you going to support his version of the facts as a gesture of solidarity?”

  Aguillar looked somber. “Miss Drake, this is hardly a time for politics. The Leytas, however ill-advised their political views, are a close family. Despite our differences, I mourn with them. This need not have happened, and how much greater their grief must be for knowing that they are in part responsible for their brother’s death.”

  Pamela Drake regarded him sardonically. She made a motion to the cameraman following him, then handed an assistant her microphone. “Off the record now, if you please. And,” she added, “that was about as smooth as I’ve ever seen you slide the knife into his heart, making it clear that Leyta’s political ambitions are responsible for his brother’s death.” She shook her head. “And the public thinks that reporters are callous.”

  Aguillar glanced at her equipment with a look born of long familiarity with publicity. Satisfying himself that her recording devices were indeed turned off, he turned back to her. “You wouldn’t understand.

  Miss Drake. For all your experience with ACN, you don’t have the slightest knowledge of what it really means to be involved in the middle of a struggle such as this. To you, it’s just another story.

  But to them,” he continued, pointing at the crowd, “it’s our future.

  Every one of us has family still in Cuba, still under Castro’s harsh yoke.

  “Leyta and I agree about one thing they must be freed.

  He, however, chooses violence and terrorism and claims that Cuba must take its place as a leader among nations. A nice dream, but I prefer reality. I work within the law; I know that relationships with the U.S. must be normalized.

  All we agree on is that Castro and his pigs must go. Castro knows that he uses me to spy on Leyta and vice versa, all the while perpetuating his regime. But do you and your colleagues understand the difference?”

  His voice rose angrily. “No. In every report, we’re both branded as some form of evil, cultish separatists, while you ignore the very real differences between us. If you understood what was at stake” Aguillar stopped abruptly. “No, you can’t, can you?” he continued more quietly
. ‘To you, it’s just another story. That’s all it will ever be.”

  Pamela Drake edged closer. “Perhaps if I understood the dynamics better, I could make sure the public understood the difference,” she said softly. “Get me access, Mannie. You know you can. You do, and if what you’re telling me is the truth, I’ll make sure everybody understands it.”

  Emanuel Aguillar studied the small white woman in front of him. For over ten years now, Pamela Drake had been a star on ACN, her face a familiar sight against the background of every major world conflict of the last decade.

  Under the harsh southern sun, he could see the small lines at the corner of her eyes artfully disguised with makeup, the slight looseness along the line of her jaw. Passion still backlit her dark green eyes, and not a trace of gray speckled the shining cap of sleek brown hair.

  An attractive woman, indeed a beautiful one, even at her age. He let his eyes drift down from her face to the thin silk blouse strained taut over her breasts and found himself speculating what it would be like to make love to her. Abruptly, he made his decision.

  “You’d like the real story, would you?” He laid a hand on her shoulder, digging into her skin lightly with his fingers.

  “It is possible, you know. I have many friends in Cuba still.

  The guerrillas would talk to you if” “If what?” Pamela’s voice was hungry.

  “If you went to them,” he finished. He smiled slightly. “I understand that battlefields and rough conditions are not new to you, but Cuba is a world unto itself. Are you ready for that world. Miss Drake?” His voice was low and caressing.

  “Just get me in there, Aguillar,” she said softly. “Get me in there, and I’ll show you how ready I am.”

  “I will. But first, there is something you must do for me.”

  Aguillar’s smile broadened into a grin.

  1300 Local (+5 GMT)

  Commander, Southern Command, Miami

  “You’ll have to talk to the media. Admiral. There’s simply no way to avoid it.” The public affairs officer’s voice was urgent.

  Rear Admiral Matthew “Tombstone” Magruder ran a hand through his unruly dark hair. Even clipped short, it managed to look mussed. His dark eyes were somber and unreadable. “Your job.”

  “Admiral, I can handle all of the smaller affairs. And, after your initial statement, I’ll handle the routine briefings as well. But this is major newsit’s getting prime-time coverage on every channel and station in the United States, as well as considerable overseas interest. I can try. Admiral,” he added hastily, seeing the look of displeasure on Tombstone’s face, “but they’re not going to be satisfied with my statement. Especially not with Admiral Loggins spearheading the debate over the Arsenal ships right now. You’ve heard what he’s saying already.”

  Tombstone leaned back in the chair and sighed. Why, oh why, had he ever accepted this assignment? Ever since his last at-sea tour, life had gone downhill. Aside from his marriage to Tomboy, there hadn’t been a damned thing he’d liked about this tour. His thoughts drifted back to Jefferson, one of the United States Navy’s most potent supercarriers.

  Commanding her battle group had been his first Rag tour, and the most professionally challenging assignment he’d had since he was in command of a squadron. And he’d done well at it, he thought no, he was certain.

  Somehow, he’d managed to keep the explosive tensions in the Spratly Islands from escalating into a full-scale war the United States was not prepared to face. With China trying to stake a claim to every inch of the oil-rich seafloor in the South China Sea, only the USS Jefferson and her cadre of escort ships had stood at the brink of war to prevent a new China hegemony. And their last mission had been the most challenging one of all.

  “I’ve prepared some remarks for you. Admiral.” The PAO’s voice took on a softer, almost wheedling, note. “At thirteen hundred, you read them. Take a few softball questions, then I’ll hustle you out of there. Really, sir, it won’t take long at all.”

  Tombstone stood up abruptly, unfolding his long frame from the comfortable chair. “All right.” He sighed. “I guess this is what they pay me for. Five minutes of questions and that’s it, though.”

  Tombstone walked to the door. If this was so routine, why did he feel like he was walking to his own execution?

  THREE

  Sunday, 23 June 1000 Local (+5 GMT)

  United Nations

  Ambassador Sarah Wexler studied the faces across the table from her. The Cuban delegate to the United Nations had an explosive temper on the best of days, and this was hardly that. For a moment, she thought almost longingly about the cold, taciturn Asiatic delegates she’d so recently faced down in the Spratly Islands. There’d been treachery there, certainly, but at least it had been masked behind the careful facade of diplomacy.

  Not so this time. She sighed, inwardly steeling herself for the confrontation.

  The Cuban question was never an easy one, and even less so in the last two years. With the collapse of the Soviet Union, she had hoped that the United States could take measures to bring its southern neighbor back into the community of democratic nations, but the decades of distrust had been impossible to overcome. Since then, other nations had courted the tiny island for most-favored-nation status. The latest intelligence reports indicated that military advisors from Libya appeared to have taken up permanent residence in Cuba, no doubt intending to take advantage of the political turmoil orchestrated by a cadre of old Che Guevara supporters.

  Behind her, a small bevy of aides and assistants murmured amongst themselves. Finally, the Cuban delegate paused in his tirade. The small conference room sounded deafeningly silent after having been filled with his angry rampage for the last fifteen minutes. How, she wondered, did he manage to speak so continuously without pausing for a breath?

  “The United States did not shoot down your aircraft. Did not shoot down any aircraft,” she amended quickly. “As you well know, any aggressive action was taken by your country, not mine.”

  “So you say! But when have we ever been able to trust the word of the United States in reference to my country?

  Conducting armed military maneuvers off our coast at this very minute a deliberate insult to Cuban sovereignty.”

  The Cuban ambassador took a deep breath.

  Ambassador Wexler winced as she watched him gather strength for another filibuster. When, oh when, would the nations of the world learn to solve conflicts by talking?

  Never, she decided, not if this was Cuba’s definition of a diplomatic discourse. “Ambassador,” she broke in sharply.

  “I granted you the courtesy of sitting quietly while you made your position plain for fifteen minutes. I insist that you return the favor.” She glared at him.

  The Cuban ambassador seemed to swell up. While he was barely an inch taller than she, it was clear that very few women of any size had rarely had the audacity to challenge him so directly. “I demand to be heard!” He banged his fist on the table.

  Ambassador Wexler felt the yellow pine table quiver under her fingers.

  “You will have your turn when I am done,” she snapped. She turned to the chairman of the Subcommittee for Caribbean Issues. “Sir, I insist I be allowed to finish my statement.”

  The chairman, a rotund, dark black man from the Bahamas, stirred uneasily. His island nation was caught in the difficult position of arbitrating the conflict between its two large neighbors, neither of which the Bahamians wished to offend. He’d dreaded this moment since the day he’d been elected chairman of the subcommittee.

  “I think,” he said slowly, his gentle island accent rising questioningly, “that perhaps the United States” “More lies! Always lies!” The Cuban ambassador jabbed an accusing finger at the Bahamian.

  “You are bought and paid for, my friend. Do not deny it. Without American aid, your little lumps of volcanic ash would still be hard down under the British crown. Someday you’ll realize that the only reason the United States provide
s money to you is to use your island as a staging point for aggression against your neighbors.”

  The Bahamian chairman stood. “You are so fast with words. But we are not in Cuba, where everyone bows down to your dictator. This is,” and his voice took on a note of pride, “the United Nations. Even a tiny nation such as mine has a voice here.” The chairman turned to Ambassador Wexler. “Your statement, madame,” he said with grave courtesy.

  She nodded her thanks, then turned to face the rest of the delegates.

  Cuba, Barbados, Puerto Rico, Antigua, and the Virgin Islands the combined landmass of all these nations put together was not even half that of Florida’s. Yet, for all their lack of size, they had an equal voice in these proceedings.

  “As you all know, the USS Thomas Jefferson and the USS Arsenal are on routine naval maneuvers south of Florida,” she began. “A number of smaller ships are also operating in the area again on routine operations. A little after three a.m a Cuban MiG-29 shadowing these ships conducted an intercept on an unidentified contact approaching the battle group. Shortly thereafter, the unidentified contact disappeared. Later correlation indicates that it was a civilian aircraft that was apparently en route to Cuba for what has been termed rescue operations.” She spread her hands expressively. “The full data tapes from that battle group are available for any nation that wishes to examine them.” Not that any of you have the equipment to play them back, she added silently.

  “Lies! As you all knew it would be,” the Cuban ambassador broke in.

  “Their aircraft carrier shot down a group of Cuban tourists touring the island.”

  “At three o’clock in the morning?” Ambassador Wexler let the question hang in the air for a moment, saw doubt and fear flicker across the other representatives’ faces. “And what evidence do you have to support this conclusion?”