She didn’t like their tactics to be honest, she didn’t like their
tactics when they were applied to her but after watching them in
action, she was beginning to understand the necessity for them.
She glanced across the boat at Thor. He was large enough to brace
himself midships, his ribs resting on one side of the craft, his
feet planted snugly against the opposite side for security. The pilot
he would have been dead by now, had it not been for the SEALs.
And would she herself have survived? She tried to believe that her
Cuban captors/friends would have freed her from her cell, would have
warned her of the incoming attack.
Tried, and failed. In the three days she had been in their country,
they had shown no more concern for her safety or well-being than a
spider does for a struggling fly caught in its web. They’d used her,
steered her toward sights and sounds they wanted broadcast to the
world, tried to subvert her from her true purpose of getting the facts
out.
And she’d let herself be used, she admitted. She had thought she’d be
able to play the delicate cat-and-mouse game with them, pretending to
do what they wanted while managing to sneak such shots to her audience
as her cunning and wile would allow. In the end, they’d come out
almost even, she suspected.
She suddenly realized with a chill that if she’d stayed at the compound
she would have been dead by now. The SEALs had saved her life, and
more than that, earned her grudging respect.
Not that that meant they’d be getting favorable coverage for this
little episode. Oh, no, far from it. But she’d find a way to bring
some balance to the picture, to show the necessity for such men in a
world like today’s, and to explore the political considerations and
checks and balances that held their deadly power in leash.
She turned to Sikes suddenly. “The dog did you kill it?”
He gazed back at her, eyes a dark steel blue, face carved out of
granite. There was no way that she could make him answer, none at
all.
But something must have shown in her face. Finally, he nodded his head
frantically. “Didn’t like to do it, but there was no other way.”
She settled back against the rigid gunwale and thought about it. Why
should she judge them harshly for killing a dog, when Cuba had made few
bones about murdering thousands and thousands of its countrymen?
Should Americans be held to a higher standard of honor than foreign
nations? And if so, how does one fight rogue nations like Cuba, those
barely civilized hordes of hotheaded fascists now in possession of some
of the world’s latest technology?
Fire with fire, she decided. That’s what it would have to be. But
some part of her mourned the death of that dog.
0635 Local (+5 GMT) Fuentes Naval Base The Cubans hunkered down in the
command bunker twenty feet below ground had escaped the bombardment
with minimal damage. Plaster had crumbled off the walls as a result of
the vibrations bombarding the center, and a few chunks of ceiling had
detached themselves from the steel beams overhead and shattered on the
concrete floor below, but everything was still operable.
Santana wished he could say as much for the launchers above. How had
the Americans managed to locate the underground launch tubes? A
satellite, he supposed, or perhaps one of those damnable reconnaissance
flights. No matter he glanced at the weapons status indicator panel
again, and was relieved to see it was unchanged.
The rows and columns of idiot lights looked like Christmas. At least
half of them were glowing steady red, indicating that their components
were beyond reinitialization or repair. Another half was blinking red,
clamoring for operator attention to either reset critical parameters or
simply clear something obstructing a launch hatch. Finally, on the far
right-hand side of the board, three columns of lights glowed bright,
steady, reassuring green. At least three missiles were still
operational, if the damage indicators could be trusted. Three chances
to strike, either at the mainland, or at the battle group poised to