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.
“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?
