Siege of Silence Page 13

  “Okay, we’ll see you at dinner. Larry, ask the squad leaders to come over here, please.”

  “Sure.”

  They turn away and walk back to the group. I ask: “Mike, can you give me an update on the Intelligence situation?”

  “Sure. There’s quite a bit, but I’d like to do that after I’ve seen the show tonight. Can tell you one thing though. I pressed your case about the ‘Nimitz’. I guess you made quite an impression on the President. He didn’t exactly give orders but he made a very powerful suggestion. The ‘Nimitz’ is over the horizon and overflights are limited to the essential. We have a second surveillance satellite in position so we’re pretty well covered.”

  “Good. Listen, you’ll meet all the men tonight but I want you to meet the squad leaders now.”

  We both turn to watch a giant C5 Transport lift off a distant runway. It looks like a warehouse rearing up on its ass. As it roars into the sky I ask, “By the way, did you tell the President I was black before I met him?”

  He smiles. “No. Truth is, it didn’t cross my mind until a few seconds before we went in. Then I thought ‘what the hell anyway’.”

  “Did he bawl you out?”

  “No, he wouldn’t do that. He did comment that you were damned fearsome-looking, but that wasn’t about colour. I mean you don’t look exactly effeminate!”

  The C5 is now a distant speck. We turn back and there are four men lined up at attention five metres away. I sneak a glance at Komlosy. He’s gonna have to take lessons from the President on how to keep a poker face. He looks like he just set eyes on something from outer space. I savour the moment while he recovers, and then I say, “Mr Komlosy, sir. This is Lieutenant Sacasa; Captain Moncada; Sergeant Castaneda; Captain Gomez.”

  It isn’t that they are all Latinos that stuns him. I may be fearsome-looking but the appearance of these guys would frighten a panzer division.

  Sacasa is short and slight. He looks like a strong wind would give him trouble keeping his feet. But his face would freeze oil. It must have started out bad enough, but after God knows how many fist fights plus the close attention of some misdirected napalm he could’ve made a fortune in horror films. Moncada is also short, but is practically deformed by the shoulders and arms of a professional weightlifter. A wide scar starts beside his left eye and disappears under his chin. He has a low forehead and the kind of eyes that Picasso painted at one time or another. Castaneda is tall and slender. He has a pencil-thin black moustache and looks as if he is smiling cruelly. It’s a sinister illusion caused by a shrapnel wound. Gomez has no apparent facial anomalies. In fact, he should be handsome but the mix of features has somehow resulted in a face that approaching strangers cross a street to avoid. I say, “Men, you know who Mr Komlosy is. Tonight he’s going to be watching the exercise. I want a clockwork effort from you and all your men.”

  Four voices snap out in unison. “Yessir!”

  Komlosy confines himself to a lame, “Keep up the great work, men. We’re relying on you.”

  I dismiss them and we climb back into the jeep. As we head for my quarters, he mutters, “Christ, Colonel, where did you find them? Fort Levenworth?”

  “Mike, they’re all long time regular soldiers. Sacasa and Gomez are Chicanos. Moncada and Castaneda Cuban blood . . . they all speak Spanish.”

  “Ha! Got you. That’s why you picked them.”

  “Only partly. They’re tough and they’re proven and they know how to lead.”

  “Is the rest of the squad like them?”

  “More or less.”

  “All Latinos?”

  “Hell no.” I turn and give him a grin. “I’ve got a couple more blacks. A full-blooded Indian an’ two Puerto Ricans.”

  He shakes his head. “Listen, is this gonna be an all-ethnic-minority assault force?”

  I laugh. “No, Mike, about half of the squad are white. Not exactly your average WASP but ethnically they kinda balance it out.”

  “Well, those four sure look dangerous. Where did you find them?”

  “Different special units. I’ve worked with them before and most of the others. Those units, when they screen volunteers, they don’t want the fantasizers. They look for certain traits of character and tendencies.”

  “You mean homicidal?”

  “Not exactly. They look for loners with imagination. You’d be surprised. Gomez, for example, is into classical music. Sibelius is his favourite. He’ll talk about him for hours if you let him. Sacasa, he teaches in a local boys’ club. They’re not all what they seem.”

  We bump along in silence for a time, then he asks, “Silas, you don’t mind me bunking in with you tonight. It’s just that I’m real pissed off at hotels.”

  “No problem, Mike, I’ll enjoy the company.”

  It’s just after ten. We’re standing on a platform high on a scaffolding tower. Behind us Newman and Allen are discussing the wind conditions. Komlosy is looking down at the mock-up.

  “They built all this in four days?”

  “In twenty-four hours. It’s just plywood and canvas but all the measurements and distances are exact. Those Seebees are ‘can do’ guys. You ask them to part the Red Sea for a couple hours an’ they’ll sure give it a try. Now I’ll fill you in.” I point below. “Moncada’s squad lands there behind the chancery. Castaneda’s over there by the residence. Sacasa’s there behind the apartments. Meanwhile Gomez’s squad has approached a thousand feet higher. They circle down slowly. At the first shot they turn on their engines, dive down and circle over the compound dropping grenades and other goodies on all the roof-tops where the guards have emplacements. Their Ultras are equipped with small but powerful lights. Once those emplacements are taken out they land and secure a landing zone over there for the choppers.”

  “How long will the choppers take to arrive?”

  ‘They’ll lift off as we make our final approach. We figure four to five minutes. At the same time, fixed wing aircraft and helicopter gun ships will be closing out the whole area.”

  “So how long from landing to evacuation?”

  “Eight to ten minutes.”

  He turns slowly, studying the whole compound carefully.

  “It’s pretty dark, Colonel.”

  “Our boys have light-intensifying glasses, sir. They don’t exactly show daylight, but they’re damn good and a hell of an advantage.”

  “What weapons will they carry?”

  “Knives. Ingram sub-machine-guns with suppressors and a variety of grenades: some the good old-fashioned kind; some new fancy ones. An’ believe it or not in each squad one man will have a sawn-off, pump-action shot-gun. That’s a weapon that for some situations can never be equalled.” I glance at my watch and he asks, “They’re about due?”

  “Yes, sir, any time now. See how far away you can spot them.”

  For two minutes he strains his eyes into the darkness, first one direction, then another. Finally he remarks, “I guess they’re late.”

  Very quietly I say, “No sir. They’re here.”

  I point to a corner of the chancery building. Two black figures glide across the ground towards the entrance. I point again; black figures running towards the residence, others towards the apartments.

  “How the hell . . . ?”

  His words are cut off as two black shapes glide by twenty yards in front of our faces.

  “How . . . ?”

  The first shot. Then more. Above our heads, pencils of light appear, picking out the roof-tops. Then sharp explosions and flashes. Komlosy ducks down.

  “Just thunder flashes, sir- simulating grenades.”

  After a few seconds the lights go out. I point as the last squad lands in front of the dark oval patch that simulates the Ambassador’s swimming pool. There are explosions and bursts of fire all over the compound. Two minutes later, flares light up in a circle a hundred metres across. There’s a clattering over our heads. A single chopper plunges out of the dark sky seeming on course for a crash. At the last
moment it slows abruptly and settles to earth. From all points of the compass, twenty black-clad figures walk out slowly and form a circle around it. The chopper’s rotor slows and stops. There is total silence, then twenty rigid arms hold up twenty sub-machine-guns and a chilling shout rolls and echoes up to us.

  “Vampires!”

  “Jesus!” Komlosy is gazing down mesmerized. I turn.

  Behind me Newman and Allen are grinning hugely. They know I stage-managed that little bit.

  “What did that mean?” Komlosy asks in a whisper.

  “That’s what we call ourselves, sir. The ‘Vampires’. Black vampires, flying at night, seeking blood . . . good for morale.”

  He shakes his head. “Not if you’re trying to get a peaceful night’s sleep . . . Jeeesus!”

  An hour later we are propping up the bar in my quarters. I don’t drink a hell of a lot but when I do I like to be on my feet. I built the bar myself out of stripped pine. It’s the right height and has a footrest. It’s a civilized watering hole. Newman and Allen stayed for one drink and then took off into town- probably chasing tail. If we do the job they want to come on the “Nimitz” with us; nurse us and the Ultras right off the deck; fine tune the engines and every other square inch of them. Without looking at Komlosy I remarked that it might be difficult. The brass get nervous about having civvies around. Komlosy had said simply, “Don’t worry, guys. If they go you’ll be there.”

  We are on to our third Scotch. Komlosy is in a strange mood. At one moment introspective and appearing sad, at another excited and enthusiastic. He’s in total awe over what he’s just seen. I’m pleased with the exercise but I don’t tell him what he didn’t see. One of Sacasa’s squad overshooting and almost having contact with the side of the chancery. Moncada’s squad arriving more than a minute late. Also Gomez’s. They were too high when they switched on their lights. Overall the operation ran about four minutes over. But it was good for a second effort. In ten days they’ll be precise. I don’t tell him this because I want him to go back and tell the President that we’re already dazzlingly brilliant. I want this job so bad it really hurts. I want to ride a winner. Just once. Right now Komlosy’s in one of his enthusiastic moods.

  “Silas, there’s one thing I don’t understand.”

  “What’s that, Mike?”

  “Well, it was dark. But dammit, it wasn’t that dark. There was reasonable visibility and I knew they were coming. I was watching for them all round. But I didn’t see them until a couple passed right in front of my nose. Silas, I’ve got twenty-twenty vision!”

  I pour him another three fingers of Scotch.

  “Mike, I’ll tell you. There have been tests- field tests- that have proved that someone searching the sky for aircraft almost never looks higher than an angle of forty-five degrees. They never look straight up. So my guys come in high until they’re directly over the target. Then they spiral down right over your head. With an Ultra that’s particularly effective because there’s no sound.”

  He sips reflectively. “Yeah, I see that now. Let me ask you something else. Couldn’t you use more men? I mean wouldn’t that give some more insurance?”

  “No way! More risk of early detection. More risk of confusion. More complications. More isn’t better, Mike.”

  He nods. “Okay. Hell, after watching that tonight, I’m not gonna argue with you.”

  “So what are the chances, Mr NSC? What are the chances we get it?”

  His mood changes visibly. He swirls the amber liquid in his glass, draws a deep breath and exhales slowly.

  “The President’s already impressed with you. He was a mite thrown by your list of disasters. He’s been asking the brass some embarrassing questions. He’ll be even more impressed after I report tomorrow on what I’ve seen tonight. If the operation goes ahead you’ve got a better than seventy per cent chance of getting it . . . if it goes ahead.”

  His last sentence is spoken gloomily. His glass is empty. I pour more Scotch.

  “But why shouldn’t it, Mike? It’s the obvious option.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, but the options are all fucked up.”

  I sense that he might open up. I’ve got to be careful not to push. I go over to the stereo and put on a tape- Thelonius Monk being cerebral.

  Back at the bar I roll my eyes and with my best Uncle Tom voice say, “Wail, Ah’s jest a souldjer. Life’s real simple; git mah orders and ‘bey them . . . most times.”

  He looks up and grins. He’s already on the threshold of being drunk.

  “Yeah. You know, Silas, right now I envy you. Watching you today and tonight I really envied you. You’re a pro doing just what you like- what you’re brilliant at.”

  “You’re a pro yourself, Mike.”

  He sighs. “Yeah, and I’ve got a job that’s mighty complicated but should be logical. Silas, you don’t know fucking politics- it’s a slippery heap of shit.”

  “Well, I can guess but surely politics doesn’t come into this?”

  He smiles and it turns into a grimace. “You know about a guy called Conrad Tessler?”

  “Sure, big industrialist cat. Power behind the President. Financed him from the early days. Got him made Governor and then President.”

  “Yeah, well he’s got three sons. The eldest works with him in the business. The second he put into politics. The youngest, Arnold, he put into the CIA. He knows that information is power. Well, Arnold is one of the hostages.”

  “Ahah! I’d seen the name and didn’t connect it.”

  “No, the media is co-operating and playing it low key.”

  “So Pa Tessler is worried that a rescue attempt could endanger his little boy’s life . . . an’ he’s putting pressure on the President?”

  Without waiting for me to do it he pours more Scotch. His hand is a little unsteady.

  “Silas, pressure is an understatement. He must have pointed out a hundred times that although it took fourteen months, the Teheran hostages got home unharmed. He’s mighty persistent and mighty fond of his little boy.”

  My anger rises. “And the President’s bending under this pressure? Is that what you’re telling me? In spite of his own convictions- it’s obscene!”

  He shakes his head. “It’s the power of politics wielded over generations, but don’t be down-hearted, Silas. There’s another complication- a beauty- and it’s pulling the President in the other direction. It’s really a beauty.”

  I keep quiet, willing him not to stop now. He lights a cigarette and blows smoke into his glass.

  “Our Ambassador there, Peabody. He’s an expert on Cuba . . . advises the CIA. It so happens that there’s a big operation under way soon against Castro. It involves people high up in the administration. Peabody advised on it. He knows the names.”

  “Okay. But he’s hardly likely to spout them out to the Chamarristas. An’ they wouldn’t dare torture him.”‘

  He’s got both elbows on the bar now. He’s nodding his head. “True, but along comes another complication. They owe Cuba an enormous debt. They’ve given Castro access to him.”

  “How?”

  “We have a dozen agents in San Carlo including the one in the compound whom we’ve finally made contact with. We also had a guy at the airport. He managed to get some photos of disembarking passengers on some of the planes that flew in after the takeover . . . before we imposed the blockade. They took a few days to get through to us. One of those photos showed the face of a man called Jorge Calderon . . .” He bends his head back, stretches his neck, then looks me straight in the eye. “Top interrogator for Cuban Intelligence. Apparently a very effective guy.”

  I’m beginning to feel glad I’m only a soldier; but also I’m pretty intrigued.

  “And this Calderon is in the compound?”

  “He comes and goes every two or three days in the back of a provisions truck.”

  “Can’t our guys knock him off?”

  “He’s guarded day and night. Besides Castro would probably send i
n someone else.”

  “Okay, but even he’s not gonna be torturing an American Ambassador . . . or is he?”

  He shakes his head. “No, he’s using psychology. That’s his forte. He’s humiliating Peabody. Keeping him isolated in the guardhouse. He’s almost naked. There’s no sanitation and all they feed him is garbage once a day.”

  “Bastards . . . ! But Mike, an Ambassador has to be top material. That’s not gonna make him crack.”

  He sighs again and lights another cigarette.

  “A team of psychologists and psychiatrists were given in-depth profiles on Peabody. Every single thing we know about him. They reported yesterday and alarm bells have been ringing in Washington ever since.”

  “That bad?”

  “Listen, buddy, that guy had some kind of tragedy decades ago. It turned him in on himself. He never married . . . has no friends . . . few acquaintances. He’s got a brilliant mind and he buried himself in books and his work. Even wrote a few himself. His anti-communism has reached obsessional level . . . and in his personal habits he’s turned fastidiousness into a fetish. Our experts think that he’s prime material for the skills of a man like Calderon. The report concluded: “Continued exposure to such conditions of detention together with intense psychological pressure could have a detrimental effect on his mental state.’”

  A long silence, then the clink of glass as Komlosy pours again.

  I remark, “The President has quite a choice to make. Does he lose sleep over it?”

  He smiles. “I doubt it. He’s developed ‘switching off’ into a fine art. But one thing’s for sure, he doesn’t want to jeopardize that operation. Sometimes I think he’d rather knock off Cuba than Russia. To him, having Castro dirtying our doorstep is a perpetual insult.”

  “What will he decide, Mike?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  His smile is devoid of humour. “Not for five or six days. During that time the CIA has another operation running. A lovely little operation.” He’s looking morosely into his glass. “I tell you, Silas, if I don’t develop the President’s ‘switch off’ techniques soon it could have a detrimental effect on my mental state.”