THREE
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 provides 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?”
“You position an armed battle group in our waters and ask my justification?”
“This from the nation that let thousands of refugees die at sea between our two countries?”
He shook his head angrily. “No, Madame Ambassador, this time the United States has gone too far. The attack on a civilian aircraft was your doing.” He placed his hands flat on the table and leaned forward toward her. “Effective immediately, Cuba is declaring a no-fly zone fifty miles around her coastline. Tell your pilots, Madame, that they violate our sovereign airspace at their own risk. They may find that our MiGs are not quite so easy to shoot down as an unarmed civilian aircraft.”
30 Miles North of Cuba Thor yanked back hard on the yoke, shoving the throttles forward to full afterburners in the same moment. The Hornet responded almost before he’d completed the move, pitching nose up in the sky and standing on her tail. Gravity worked with the force of the afterburners to shove him back in his seat, pinning him against the lumbar support panel with five Gs of force. Thor felt the flesh pull back from his face, try to creep around back to his neck, and smiled.
God, there was nothing like it! Open sky, plenty of fuel, and a Hornet strapped to your as sit didn’t get any better than this.
He shut his eyes for the briefest second, letting the thundering waves of noise wash over him. The afterburners were fully engaged now, adding the peculiar, deep-throated roar of their fire to the normal, solid, reassuring howl of the engines. He enjoyed the brief sensation of danger with his eyes shut, then looked quickly back down at the altimeter.
“Bet that’ll make them sit up and take notice,” he said out loud, noting that his instruments indicated an SOG-speed over ground of zero.
“You check that altitude, boys, and you’ll see what a Hornet can do.
Straight up, no forward movement. Now that’s a fighter.”
Sure enough, the voice of the operations specialist from Jefferson sounded anxious in his left ear. “Hornet Threezero-one, say state?”
The routine inquiry into his fuel status masked the real question: Now, just what the hell are you doing. Hornet 301?
“Eight thousand pounds,” Thor said, forcing the words out of his throat. He grunted and tensed his abdominal muscles, driving blood from his extremities back up into his brain. “I’m fine. Flasher,” he said, using the air intercept controller’s nickname. “Don’t worry about me just puttin’ her through her paces.”
