you again later this afternoon with answers, this time.”
“I’ll have them for you, Mr. President. You can count on that.” The general saluted, executed a smart about- face, and left the room.
“The rest of you, start getting the other pieces of the packages together. I want everything public affairs coordination, a conference call with the governor of Florida …
no, Louisiana and Texas, as well and the rest of the staff immediately available for the next forty-eight hours.”
And that’s all it should take: forty-eight hours.
Aguillar reached out and patted Pamela’s leg lightly above the knee. He let his fingers linger a moment, feeling the smooth silk of the stockings rasp against his well-manicured palm. He trailed his fingers up ever so slightly, lifting them reluctantly away only when she glanced sharply at him. The more he saw of her, the more he thought that the possibilities might be … ah, well, perhaps another time. He sighed, thinking what a waste it was that the woman’s mind could be so firmly fixed on her job. “You are not nervous, I hope?” he inquired politely.
“Of course not,” Pamela said calmly, anger barely edging her tones.
“I’ve been to Cuba before.”
Aguillar chuckled and leaned back in his chair. The aircraft was already taxiing for departure. “Never this Cuba, Miss Drake. And never with a native guide.” A nostalgic look crossed his face.
“There’s nothing like it, nothing in the world.” A strong wave of homesickness shook him, still a surprise after so many years away.
He felt her eyes on his face, studying him, dissecting him in the coldly calculating way he’d seen her operate before.
“Never this Cuba?” she inquired, letting the question trail off to invite response.
“Oh, no, I’m sure you haven’t seen my Cuba. Not the one I grew up in.”
“Under Castro?”
He nodded. “Castro was part of it, but hardly the thing I remember most.” He fixed her with a stern look. “You must remember. Miss Drake, for us, this is normal.”
“Assassinations? Purges? Genocide?”
“That’s not what I remember not what I miss,” he said, surprising himself slightly. For all her brittle prickliness, there was something about Pamela Drake that made him want to talk, to explain to her the sheer luxuriant sensuality of his homeland. The rich, warm nights, the endless beaches, the pure, clean water around her, though the latter would change now, since the advent of heavy industry along the coastline. “It was …” He searched for exactly the right words to convey to her. “Paradise,” he concluded finally.
He saw her doubting look. “Oh, I know what you’ve been told. There’s disease, poverty, and oppressive political regimes but really, remember, we grew up with all that.
There was nothing unusual, nothing abnormal about it. Life went on.
We had families, we had children, and we had …”
Again, words failed him. It seemed impossible to convey to her the simple rhythms of life in Cuba, the feeling of rightness and oneness with nature. And the women ah, the women. He glanced over at her again, contrasting her with Cuban women he’d known. Too many angles, he decided, too many sharpened little edges poking out of her. A classical beauty, yes, yes, every inch of her refined and somehow pure.
But there was none of the raw sensuality he remembered from his island days, none of the exuberant passion for life and making love that he missed perhaps most of all. The American women, so far removed from what was important in life that they were virtually sucked dry of all of the joy of life now that, that joy, was what he missed. “I will show you some places,” he decided suddenly. “Yes, the guerrillas, the freedom fighters you know they’re there and that’s where your story is.”
A small trace of bitterness crept into his voice. “But there is so much more, so much more that Cuba has to offer to America.
There must be cooperation, you see. Not only for our survival, but for America’s as well.”
“And that’s why I decided to come with you,” Pamela said decisively.
“To show the American people both sides of the picture. You claim there’s a difference between your objectives and Leyta’s. Fine, well show it to me. Show me why America should be a friend to Cuba instead of a suspicious neighbor. Show me how much we have in common, where our true future lies. If you can show me, I can show the rest of the world.” She leaned forward, stared past him out the window. “That’s why I came.”
“I know.” He resisted the impulse to reach out and trace his fingers up her thigh, groaned inwardly as he imagined how it would feel to reach the top of the delicate hose. But that’s not why I have you with me.
“From here we will go by seaplane, then by small boat,” he continued, regretfully suppressing the ripple of lust she always caused. “And something else as well despite our differences, Leyta and I cooperate on a number of issues.
His people will be guiding your tour. I believe he may himself be in Cuba at this very moment.”
“Leyta? But why?”
Aguillar shrugged. “You’ve seen most of what I do. I work through existing organizations and channels in Washington. Leyta has other connections.” He frowned for a moment, remembering that his public adversary had even gambled his own brother’s life on an overt mission gambled and lost. “While I disapprove completely of his methods, unfortunately he is the better equipped to show you our homeland. He will be rendezvousing with us off the coast of Cuba. I think you will find his planned tour itinerary most enlightening.”
More interesting than you planned on, my sweet American bitch. If you knew how we are using you, my chances would disappear entirely.
“So this is it?” the President asked. “He gestured at the battle plan drawn on the chalkboard. “Why the Arsenal ship?”
“It’s time for an operational task, Mr. President,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff said calmly. “With the rash of accidents we’ve had on board Jefferson, I’m afraid …” He let his voice trail off delicately.
Vice Admiral Thomas Magruder snorted. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Jefferson and her battle group,” he snapped. “Mr. President, with all due respect to the chairman, that ship is as ready as she’s ever been. She was ready when my nephew Tombstone commanded her, and she’s ready now.” He leaned forward and jabbed angrily in the air with a forefinger. “If you want a strike on Cuba, Jefferson is the best bet. Using anything else is a mistake.”
“The question of assets has already been decided,” the chairman said shortly. He turned to the President and added smoothly, “Subject to your approval, of course, sir.”
The President leaned back in his chair and looked puzzled. “Aircraft carriers have always been the primary platform for force projection,” he said slowly. “I’m not sure why we should deviate now.”
“The Arsenal ship can do the same job at a fraction of the risk,” the chairman pointed out. “Totally independent, capable of putting massive amounts of ordnance onshore smart weapons, Mr. President, specifically tailored to reach each target we want, without any collateral damage.
Without any collateral damage. More importantly, every step of the battle can be controlled personally by you. The ability to order the attack while you’re still talking to the Cubans on the telephone gives you a superb bargaining position.”
The President glanced up at him sharply. “You’re going to guarantee that?” He shook his head. “Impossible. There’s always collateral damage.”
“And how much did you see during Desert Storm and Desert Shield?” the chairman asked politely. “There were stories, allegations but you have to admit, the smart weapons performed superbly. The weapons on the Arsenal ship are a generation beyond that. We have a target impact area of no greater than one meter, Mr. President. Less than thirty-six inches, and from a range of over eighty miles away. There’s not an aircraft on that carrier that can match that kind of targeting precision. And there’s one other factor,” he continued. “Something that will make it the ultimate political war weapon.”
“The targeting?” The President frowned. “I don’t know that it’s such a good idea.”
