Cuba (43 page)

letter requesthag retirement. Then he signed both

letters and put his pen back hi his pocket.

“… our willingness to work with the new

government. In fact, I think this would be an

excellent time to end the American embargo of

Cuba….”…The national security adviser was

talking, apparently reciting a speech he had

rehearsed with the president earlier today. As the

adviser talked, the president had been looking

around die room, watching faces for reactions. Just

now he was looking at Tater Totten with narrowed

eyes.

He knows, the general thought.

When the adviser wound down, the president spoke

before anyone else could. “General Totten, you look

like a man with something to say.”

“We can’t ignore six ICBM’S armed with

biological warheads. We can’t ignore a lab

for manufacturing toxins. We can’t ignore a

warehouse full of stolen CBW warheads.” He

leaned forward in his chair, looked straight at the

president, whose brow was furrowing into a scowl.

“Fifty million Americans are within range of

those missiles. We must move

right now

to disarm those missiles, put the Cubans out of the

biological warfare business, and recover those

stolen warheads. We have absolutely no

choice. When they find out what the threat is, the

American people are not going to be hi the mood to listen

to excuses.”

Tater Totten looked around the table at the

pale, drawn faces. Every eye hi the room was on

him. “If one of those missiles gets launched at

America, everyone hi this room will be responsible.

That is the hard, cold reality. All this happy

talk about lifting embargoes and a new era of peace

hi the Caribbean is beside the point. We can’t

ignore weapons of mass destruction aimed at

innocent Americans.”

The silence that followed lasted for several

seconds, un-

til the president broke it. “General, no one

is suggesting we ignore those missiles. The question

is how we can best deal with the reality of their presence.

My initial reaction is to wait until a new

government takes over in Cuba, then to talk with them

about disarmament and return of the stolen warheads in

return for lifting the embargo. Reasonable people will

see the advantages for each side.”

“Your mistakeea”…General Totten replied, “is

thinking that reasonable people will be involved in the

negotiations. Reasonable people don’t build

CBW weapons of mass destructionunreasonable people

do. Unreasonable people use mem to commit murder for

ends they could achieve in no other way, ends they

think are worth other people’s blood to attain. Now,

that,

by God, is reality.”

The secretary of state had snaked the chairman’s

letter of resignation over hi front of her while he

was speaking. Now she showed it to the director of the

CIA, who was on her left.

“What is that document”…”…the president asked.

“My letter of resignationea”…Tater Totten said

blandly. “I haven’t decided whether to submit it

now or later.”

As the president’s upper lip curled hi a

sneer, the secretary of state put the letter back on

the table in front of disthe general.

“Totten, you son of a bitch!

I’m

the man responsible.”

“I have to sleep nightsea”…Tater shot back.

“You reveal classified information to the press,

I’ll have you prosecuted.”…The president knew

damn well that Totten would hold a press conference

and tell all. “You’ll spend your

goddamn retirement in a federal pen,” the

president snarled.

“Bullshit! When the public finds out about polio

warheads on ICBM’S aimed at Florida, the

tidal wave is going to wash you away.”…General

Totten pointed a finger at the president.

“Don’t fuck this up, cowboy: there are too many

American lives at stake. Now isn’t the time

for a friendly game of Russian roulette.”

“Okayea”…the president said, lifting his hands and showing

the palms. “Okay! What’s the date on that letter?”

“Today.”

“Make it a week from today. We’ll do this your

way, and a week from today you’re permanently off to the

golf course with your mouth welded shut.”

Totten got out his pen, changed the date on both

the letters, and passed them across the table to the president,

who didn’t even glance at them.

“Better get cracking, Generalea”…the president

snarled.

“Yes, sirea”…sd Tater Totten. He rose

from his chair and walked out of the room.

At the same time the president and National

Security Council were meeting in Washington, the

Council of State of the communist government

of Cuba was meeting in Havana.

“Where is FidelThat someone roared at Alejo

Vargas as he walked into the room, flanked

by Colonel Santana on one side and a

plainclothes secret policeman on the other.

Santana limped as he walked. He was heavily

bandaged about the head and left arm, and moved like a man

who was very sore.

Vice President Raul Castro watched

Alejo Vargas take his seat at the table beside die

other ministers. His face was mottled, his anger

palpable. He motioned for silence, smacked a

wooden gavel against the table until he got it, then

looked Vargas straight in the face.

“Where is my brother?”

“Dead.”

“And you have hidden the body.”

“The body is being prepared for a state funeral.

I didn’t think anyone would object.”

“Liarff”…Ratil Castro spit out the word. He

stood, leaned on the table, and shouted at Vargas.

“Liarst I think you murdered Fidel. I think you

murdered him so mat you could take over the

country.”…He waved at the window. “The

people out there think so too. You have murdered my

brother and arrested the man that he hoped would eventually

succeed him, Hector Sedano. Jesus, man, the

whole country is coming apart at the seams; they are

rioting in the streets!”

Alejo Vargas examined the faces around the table

while Raul shouted. Maximo Sedano was there, his

face impassive. Many of the faces could not be read.

Most of them merely wanted food to eat and a place

to live, something better than the people in the cane

fields had. They went to their offices every day,

obeyed Fidel’s orders, took the blame when

things went wrongas they usually did watched Fidel

take the credit if things went right, and soldiered

on. That had been a way of Me for these people for two

generationsforty yearsand now it was over.

“… the people loved Fidelea”…Raul was saying,

“honored and respected him as the greatest patriot

in the history of Cuba, and I think you, Alejo

Vargas, had a hand in his death. I accuse you of his

murder.”

“Watch your mouthea”…Santana told him, but Raul

turned on him like an enraged bear.

“I am vice president of the republic, first in

line of succession upon the death of the

presidentea”…Raul thundered at the

colonel. “Maintain your silence or be evicted.”

Alejo Vargas had already removed his pistol from his

pocket while he sat at the table listening

to Raul. Now he raised it, extended it to arm’s

length, and squeezed the trigger. Before anyone could

move he pumped three bullets into Raul

Castro, who fell sideways, knocking over his

chair. The reports were like thunderclaps in the room,

leaving the audience stunned and slightly deafened.

Alejo Vargas got to his feet, holding the

pistol casually in front of him in his right hand,

“Does anyone else wish to accuse me of

murder?”

Total, complete silence. Vargas looked from

face to face, trying to make eye contact with everyone

willing. Most averted their eyes when he looked

into their face.

“Colonel Santana, please remove Senor

Castro from the room. He is ill.”

As a bandaged Santana and the plainclothesman were

carrying out the body, Alejo Vargas again seated

himself. He placed the pistol on the table in front

of him.

“I will chair this meetingea”…he said. “We

are here today to decide what must be done in light of the

recent death of our beloved president, Fidel

Castro. He fought a long, valiant fight against

the disease of cancer, which claimed him four days ago.

Of course the news could not be publicly announced

until the Council of State had been informed and

decisions reached on the question of succession.

“I do hereby officially inform you of the tragedy of

Fidel Castro’s passing, and declare this meeting open

to discuss the question of naming a successor to the office of

president.”

With that Vargas reached across the table and seized die

gavel that Raiil Castro had used. He tapped

it several times on the table, sharp little raps that made

several people flinch.

“This meeting is officially openea”…he declared. “Who

would like to speak first?”‘

No one said a word.

“The news of our beloved president’s death has

hit everyone hardea”…Vargas said. “I understand. Yet

the business of our nation cannot wait. L hereby

nominate myself for the office of president. Do I

hear a second?”

“I second the nominationea”…sd General Alba, his

voice carrying in the silence.

“Let the record show that I move to make the

nomination unanimousea”…Admiral Delgado said, his

voice quavering a little.

“I second that motionea”…General Alba replied,

“and move that the nominations be closed.”

One would almost mink they rehearsed that, Alejo

Vargas thought, and gave the two general officers a

nod of gratitude.

* * *

Sharks!

The silent predators came gliding in even as

Ocho Sedano watched with his face hi the water,

gray, streamlined torpedoes swimming effortlessly

through the half-light under the surface. They seerned

to be swimming toward the place where the

Angel del Mar

had just gone under. No doubt the turbulence and noise

from the sinking boat attracted them.

The people thrashing about on the surface were also making

noise. Nature had equipped the sharks to sense the

death struggles of other creatures, and to come to feed.

He raised his head from the water, shouted, “Sharks.

Sharks.”…His voice was very hoarse, his throat

terribly dry. He sucked up a mouthful of

salty seawater, men spit it out.

“Sharks!

Do not struggle. Swim away from the wreck, from each

other.”

He didn’t know if anyone heard him or not.

A scream split the air, then was cut off

abruptly, probably as the person screaming was

pulled under.

Another scream. Shouts of “Sharksff”…and calls

to God.

He felt something rub against his leg, and kicked

back viciously. With his face in the water he could

see the shark, a big one, maybe eight feet,

swimming toward the concentration of people in the water.

He turned the other way, began swimming slowly

away.

The old fisherman was nearby, doing the same.

“Do not panicea”…the old man said. “Swim slowly,

steadfly.”

“The others …”

“There is nothing we can do. God is with them.”

He heard several more screams, a curse or two,

then nothing. He didn’t want to hear. And he was

swimming into the wind, so the sound would not carry so

well.

Dora was back there. If she got off the

boat. He couldn’t remember if she leaped from the

boat before it sank. Perhaps she drowned when the boat

went down. If so, that was

God’s mercy. Better that than being eaten by a

shark, having a leg ripped half off, or an arm,

then bleeding hi agony until the sharks tore you

to pieces or pulled you under to drown.

That mere were still things, on this earth that ate people was an

evil more foul than anything he had ever imagined.

He tired of swimming and stopped once, but the

old fisherman encouraged him.

“Don’t die here, son. Swim farther, get

away from the sharks.”

“They’re everywhereea”…Ocho replied, with impeccable

logic.

“Swim fartherea”…the old man said, and so he did.

Finally they stopped. How far they had come they had

no way of knowing. The sea rose and fell hi a

timeless, eternal rhythm, the wind occasionally ripped

spume from a crest and sent it flying, puffy clouds

scudded along, the sun beat down.

“We will die out hereea”…he told the old man, who

was only’ab ten feet away.

f

The fisherman didn’t reply. What was

there to say?

Even the tragedy of Dora couldn’t keep him

awake. He kept dozing off, then awakening when

water went into his nose and mouth.

In the afternoon he thought he saw a ship, a sailing

ship with three masts and square sails set to catch

the trade winds. Maybe he only imagined it.