Free Cuba by Stephen Coonts

everyone on the
    island might as well set sail for Miami.
    Maybe he should have left, said good-bye, thrown up
    his hands and retired to the Costa del Sol.
    Next time. Next time he would retire young, let
    the Cubans make it on their own.
    Like every man who ever walked the earth, Castro had
    been trapped by his own mistakes. The choices
    he made early in the game were irreversible. He
    and the Cuban people had been forced to live with the
    consequences. Life is like that, he reflected.
    Everyone must make his choices,
    wise or foolish, good or bad, and live with them;
    there is no going back.
    There is always the possibility of
    redemption, of course, but one cannot unmake the past.
    We have only the present. Only this moment.
    When the pain came this time, the cigar dropped from his
    fingers.
    He lay in the bed groaning, trying not to scream for the
    nurse. If he did, she would give him an
    injection, which would put him to sleep. The needle was
    going to give him peace during his final days, but he
    wasn’t ready for it yet.
    The pain had eased somewhat when he felt a hand on
    his forehead. He opened his eyes. Mercedes.
    “You dropped your cigar on the floorea”…she
    whispered.
    “I know.”
    “Shall I call the nurse?”
    “Not for a while.”
    She used a damp cloth to wipe the perspiration from his
    face. The cloth felt good.
    “Light the cigar.”
    She did so, put it in his hand. He managed one
    tiny puff.
    “You talked to Hector?”
    “Yes.”
    “What did he say?”
    “He was surprised. He didn’t know it
    would
    be
    so soon.”
    “That was your impression?”
    “Yes.”
    “And the tobacco deal with the Americans? What did
    Hector say when you told him about it?”
    “Just listened.”
    “The birthday party, Maximo came?”
    “Yes. Brought a box of French chocolates and his
    wife, who wore a Paris frock.”
    Fidel’s lips twisted. He could imagine what the
    other people at the party thought of that. Maximo could charm
    foreign bankers and squeeze a peso until it
    squealed, but he was no politician.
    “Did you warn Hector about Alejo?”
    “Yes.”
    “What did he say?”
    “He made light of it.”
    Fidel thought about that. Remembered the cigar and took
    another puff.
    “He thinks the threat will be the generalsea”…he said
    finally, “but it won’t. The generals don’t know it,
    but the troops will follow Hector. Alejo
    Vargas is his most dangerous opponent,
    and if Hector Sedano doesn’t understand that, they will
    bury him a few days after they bury me.”
    “Admiral, next weekend when we’re in the
    Virgin Islands, what say we put the barge in the
    water and go waterskiing?”
    The person asking the question was the admiral’s aide, a
    young lieutenant who flew an FirstA-18 on her
    last cruise. Her boyfriend was still in one of the
    Hornet squadrons; the last time Jake
    Grafton approved the barge adventure, the
    boyfriend was invited to go along.
    Now Jake sighed. “I’m not sure where we’re
    going to be next weekend, Beth.”…He had no
    intention of getting very far from Guantanamo Bay
    while those warheads were still in that warehouse, but of
    course he couldn’t say that. “Check with ops,
    Commander Tarkington.”
    “Yes, sirea”…Beth said, trying to hide her
    disappointment.
    The new Chief of Staff, Captain Gil
    Pascal, Toad Tarkington, and the admiral had
    put their heads together, carefully listed the forces
    available should an emergency arise, and drafted a
    contingency plan. “Nothing’s happened in all these
    yearsea”…Jake told them, “but Washington
    must have had a reason for telling us to keep an eye
    on the place. They must know something we don’t.”
    Gil Pascal met the admiral’s gaze. He
    had reported to the staff just a week ago. “Sir,
    as I recall, the orders said to ‘monitor” the
    loading of the weapons onto the container ship.”
    “”Monitor”"…”…muttered Jake Grafton.
    “What the hell does that mean? Is that some kind