old lead.
Tombstone took Batman’s hand, used it to lever himself up from the
couch, then turned the grip into a warm handshake. “You never know
what you’ll do until you’re there, shipmate. You know it’s the right
decision. It’s the same one you’d make if you were in my shoes.”
“Let’s get some sleep, Stoney,” Batman said. “If tomorrow is as long a
day as I think it’s going to be, we’ll need it.”
0200 Local (+5 GMT) Fuentes Naval Base Colonel Santana ran his hand
over the .45 pistol holstered on his hip. The gun was smooth, gleaming
better cared for than 90 percent of the houses and people living in his
country. But his life did not depend on people right no wit depended
on this gun. And on the temper of the man seated opposite him.
Santana left his fingers resting gently on the butt as he glared at the
Libyan. “Your plan is not working. The Americans are here in force
and have already penetrated and destroyed our deception.”
Kaliff Mendiria lounged lazily in the chair, seemingly unaware of the
gun at Santana’s hip. He lifted one hand and waved away Santana’s
concerns with a light flip of his fingers. “You think short-term, my
friend. That is why our partnership is so good. You have experience
and are excellent in executing the immediate, the tactical. But for
the longer-range planning, you need an outside viewpoint to balance
your impetuousness. Ah, that hot Cuban blood it has landed you in
trouble more than once, has it not?” The Libyan took a deep breath,
then yawned. “It is growing late.
I suggest we retire until tomorrow morning.”
Santana jerked the pistol from his holster and slammed it down on the
table, butt first. The nine-inch barrel pointed menacingly in
Mendiria’s direction. Not at him directly no, Santana was not willing
to make that threat just yet but certainly in that direction. “What of
the missiles!
You promised them by now.”
Mendiria frowned. “You threaten me, then demand concrete evidence of
our friendship? Is this how Cuba thinks?”
“We had a deal,” Santana said tightly. “A distraction here, so that
you could proceed with your plans in Africa. We have drawn the
American battle group away from the Mediterranean as you requested, and
what good has it done us? Merely invited a missile launch that
decimated an empty field.”
“An empty field,” Mendiria echoed. “And do you suppose that if we had
already delivered the missiles to you, they would have been in that
field? Undoubtedly so. You see, Santana, you simply must learn to
look ahead.”
Santana paused uncertainly. Was it possible? Had the swarthy African
sitting across from him actually foreseen the American strike at Cuban
soil, and planned around it?
He studied the Libyan more closely now, cataloging his features. An
ugly man, but one with a compelling sense of power about him that even
Santana only rarely dared to brook.
Santana holstered the pistol and sat down in the chair opposite the
Libyan. “So. Enlighten me, then. Explain to me how this is all a
part of your plot, how every movement is accounted for and proceeding
exactly as planned. I’m ready to believe, Mendiria just not yet
convinced.”
The Libyan leaned forward on the table, resting his weight on his
elbows. His piercing eyes were half hooded with sleepy eyelids, the
mouth slightly slack and barely covering the even row of white teeth.
“And this is why you keep me up so late at night?” He shook his
head.
“Let me explain this to you one more time. Then either shoot me or
start cooperating, I don’t care which one but quit waking me up in the
middle of the night with your stupid nightmares.
“The Americans are here, occupied by what they perceive as the Cuban
problem. Your soil is vulnerable, my friend, especially with
reinforcements so close at hand. But now that the Americans have
actually conducted a first strike, the balance of world opinion will
shift in your favor. The United States will find neither support nor
approval for further action against Cuba. And you you have lost
nothing.
Turned up a few dirt clods, perhaps missing a few agricultural workers,