Havana Five
The pair reached the door, and Encizo peered out in time to see the Executioner go EVA a millisecond before the windshield of their vehicle imploded under a hail of autofire. The Cuban turned his attention to the source of the firing and saw a car screech from the curb and head directly for the jail.
“Looks like we might have a slight delay,” Encizo announced.
THE EVER SO PERCEPTIBLE PUFF of smoke from the tailpipe of the sedan stood as the only clue to Bolan the crew planned to make a move. In that brief lull between the decision and action of their enemy, Bolan instructed Grimaldi to go inside and alert Encizo. The sedan suddenly lurched from the curb just as the soldier had expected. Sunlight glinted on the muzzles of automatic weapons protruding from the passenger windows.
Bolan had set the door ajar a minute earlier, anticipating that kind of move, and his forethought prevented the aggressors from perforating him with a hail of bullets. He rolled out of the vehicle and went prone on the sidewalk, rolling onto his back long enough to slide both Beretta 93-Rs from beneath the folds of the thin, tattered poncho he’d purchased that morning.
Slugs whizzed overhead and ricocheted off the buildings, while others audibly slapped the driver’s side of Encizo’s borrowed jalopy with metallic plinks. Bolan waited until he heard the squeal of tires and opening of doors before he dropped to one knee behind the solid, metal body of the old clunker. Bolan braced his forearms over the trunk of the car, took aim at the gunners as they went EVA, and squeezed the triggers simultaneously.
The Berettas were both set to 3-shot mode, which in the hands of the Executioner were as effective as the submachine guns being toted by his enemies. A trio of 9 mm Parabellum rounds took the first unlucky gunner in the chest, punching red holes in his sternum, exiting out his back, leaving a crimson spray on the door. The impact sent him spinning and dumped him face-first on the rough pavement. The other burst of rounds shattered the back window and sent the others racing for cover to avoid the deadly glass shards.
In his periphery, Bolan saw his allies join him. Encizo fired from a standing position above the roof of the car and took out his man with a head shot over the roof of the enemy’s sedan. The remaining gunner tried to move away from the vehicle and make a beeline for cover, but Bolan and Encizo caught him simultaneously with unerring accuracy. The man danced under the onslaught as slugs drilled through his stomach and chest. Encizo finished it with a round to the neck. Hot blood and tissue erupted from the wound and left a gaping hole where the throat had been. The man toppled to the ground.
Grimaldi focused his attention on the driver. The windshield splintered under the first two rounds, a large part broke away on number three, and two more succeeded in finishing the job. A geyser of blood and brain matter splattered the dash and side window as the driver’s head exploded. The echo of gunfire died and in the near distance the wail of sirens signaled the approach of the Cuban police.
“Looks like the commandant got to a phone,” Encizo told Bolan as he reached inside the vehicle from the passenger side and popped the trunk.
“I’ll fret later,” Bolan replied. He jerked his thumb at the car. “Better not to take this. It’ll draw too much attention.”
“Or this,” he said, holding up the satchel filled with C-4 plastique with all the trimmings. “We should be able to lose them on foot.”
Once they made some distance, Bolan asked, “You get a location on Stein and Crosse?”
“Yeah,” Encizo said with a nod. “They’re holed up in a motel not too far from here.”
“They’re under guard, I assume.”
“Of course.”
Grimaldi shook his head and groaned. “Our luck just keeps getting better.”
“I suppose you realize that commandant will call in reinforcements to ambush us at the motel,” Encizo said.
A ghost of a smile crossed Bolan’s face. “I’m counting on it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Hal Brognola sat in his office and tried to maintain his cool.
It wasn’t often the President of the United States decided to call a personal meet, and particularly not on Stony Man’s home turf. The Farmhouse and Annex remained top secret, their locations known by a select few, and the Man rarely opted to pay them a personal visit. With the press and staff constantly nipping at his heels, such a request could compromise the Farm’s security.
On this occasion, however, the President had informed Brognola he’d be traveling incognito and even the Secret Service wouldn’t accompany him. This didn’t worry the head Fed any, since he knew the President came under escort of three of the most capable warriors ever fashioned by hellfire: together they formed the urban Able Team. The President’s unconventional request worried Brognola simply because he knew him to be a pragmatist. If he was requesting a personal meeting, then that meant it was damned important.
Brognola left his office and climbed the old secret stairwell that led to the first floor of the farmhouse. Maybe a brisk walk around the grounds would take his mind off the upcoming meet. Beside the fact, more pressing matters on Striker’s mission—a mission he was sure had prompted the Man’s request for a personal meeting—demanded his immediate attention.
So far, they didn’t have much to go on. The fact someone had tried to terminate the Executioner within hours of his arrival at Guantánamo Bay perplexed the Stony Man chief most of all. Nobody outside of immediate personnel knew Brognola had contacted Bolan about the potential troubles brewing in Cuba, let alone they would have gathered enough details to pick up Bolan’s scent, track him to a secured U.S. naval installation and then kill him. That left only one possible answer: somebody on the inside of the military prison at Gitmo knew Bolan had questioned Melendez and decided to make sure the Executioner took that information to the grave.
But who and why? Those were two questions for which Brognola didn’t have answers. Even Barbara Price and Aaron Kurtzman had been left at a loss for suggestions. Well, they sure as hell needed to find out. And as Bolan had pointed out, the fact somebody was willing to risk an open killing meant there was probably merit to what Melendez had told them before his untimely demise.
Brognola walked the perimeter of the wood line and considered their decision to send Grimaldi and Encizo; he wouldn’t second-guess Bolan’s request. The Stony Man chief had learned long ago not to question the men in the field. They were hardened and experienced warriors who knew what was what. They were there under the direst of circumstances, not Brognola or Price, hence his reason for a hands-off policy when it came to making operational decisions at the field level. Brognola never armchair quarter-backed an operation before and he didn’t plan to start now.
Unfortunately they had minimal intelligence up to this point. Operations inside Cuba were always difficult, at best, since they couldn’t operate as freely as in other countries. Moreover, the political waves created by the waning health of Cuba’s leader caused increasing unrest in the country’s citizens. There were social underpinnings to consider, as well, and the talk in certain circles of its bleak socioeconomic and political future wouldn’t make things easier for Bolan and his crew. Fortunately, money could still do quite a bit of talking down there, and in context they had an almost limitless supply of cash in the coffers if the need arose for it.
Movement on Brognola’s right penetrated his train of thought as effectively as a lithe form penetrated the tree line.
“You startled me,” Brognola declared.
Barbara Price half smiled. “Maybe you’re losing your edge.”
“Maybe I was only kidding and I just wanted you to think you took me off guard.”
“Whatever gets you through the day,” she said.
They didn’t often trade in this type of playful banter, but Brognola guessed Price had indulged in the same recent edginess he experienced at hearing of the President’s imminent arrival.
“Out trying to clear the old noggin some?” he asked.
She nodded. “I suppose. You headed back to the farmhouse?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I walk with you, cool down?”
“Not at all.”
Price did a little deep breathing before saying, “This deal with Striker’s recent discoveries in Cuba had me racking my brain most of the morning. I thought maybe a jog through the woods might shake loose a prophetic moment.”
“Yeah,” Brognola said. “I decided to take a walk in hope of finding an epiphany of my own. I assume you finished your dissemination on Havana Five?”
“Yes. And before you ask, I didn’t find much, not of consequence anyway.”
“Maybe what we gave Striker will be enough,” Brognola said. “Between him and Rafael, they’ll figure out the rest.”
“Sounds like he’s still convinced the two Americans Melendez overheard are our missing DIA agents.”
“Right. What I can’t figure is why they would have killed Colonel Waterston.”
“Doesn’t seem to fit the profile of either of them,” Price said. “I took a thorough look into their dossiers. Stein and Crosse were both decorated veterans of Desert Storm, ranked high in their respective classes at the federal law enforcement training center and Quantico, and outside of obviously trumped-up charges a couple of times in Crosse’s career, neither of them has been in any type of trouble. I even talked to a former supervisor at the DIA. He says they were top of the line.”
“Sounds like a couple of regular poster boys for the DIA,” Brognola replied with a grunt.
“Indeed.”
“Okay, so we can assume one of two things. Either what Striker got from Melendez was flawed in some way or Stein and Crosse really did kill Waterston. If we say the latter scenario’s the most likely right now given the fact Waterston’s MIA, then that would indicate an act of desperation.”
“Or an accident,” Price pointed out.
“I hadn’t considered that possibility,” Brognola admitted. “That’s good. Now maybe we’re getting somewhere. But even if we’re correct, and right now it’s all just conjecture, that still doesn’t explain how Havana Five figures into all of this.”
“Well, Melendez definitely tied those things together when Striker interrogated them,” Price said. “Melendez was betting his life on it, which means there has to be a connection.”
“Right,” Brognola said. “And it’s our job to find out what that is. Striker’s operating on thin intelligence. We need to come up with something solid, and quickly.”
“Well, there’s no guarantee they’ll be able to figure out what’s going on even if they find Stein and Crosse,” Price said. “All we can do is our best to find the answers Striker needs. I won’t rest until we do that.”
“I know.” Brognola looked in the direction of the farmhouse with absence. “We’d better get inside and cleaned up. The Man will be here within the hour.”
PER BROGNOLA’S INSTRUCTIONS, Able Team escorted the President to the War Room as soon as they arrived.
Brognola and Price awaited him there, and Able Team made a quick exit to nearby posts that were out of the room but still provided them access to the Man in less than ten seconds. Not that they were overly concerned. Nobody knew of the President’s visit and he planned to be here for less than a half hour.
“Hal, I know you’re all pretty busy,” the President began. “I appreciate your meeting me on such short notice.”
“Not at all, sir,” Brognola said. “It’s never a trouble. Although…” Brognola let his sentence trail off, thinking better of it.
“Although you’re surprised I’d call a meeting here,” the President replied. “Right?”
“It had crossed our minds, sir,” Price said coolly and professionally.
“I know it’s unorthodox, and normally I wouldn’t have risked the security nightmare I’m sure this creates,” the President said. “But I felt this was the best way.”
“The best way to do what exactly, Mr. President?” Brognola asked.
“To clarify the importance of this mission. You see, ever since the Cuban missile crisis, our relations have been less than stellar with Castro. I know that’s hardly a surprise, maybe not even worth mentioning. What you might not know is that one of the main purposes of Plan Colombia was to completely eradicate relations whereby Cuba permitted terrorist training of Colombian guerrillas inside their boundaries. And while it’s always been a big risk on Castro’s part given our military presence there, it’s been an even larger one in recent years.
“I believe Cuba might be on the verge of its very own civil war. It’s my hope if this occurs that the United States will be poised to suggest peace talks rather than permit the outbreak of armed conflict between Cuban citizens and their government so close to U.S. interests. If we’re successful in that, it could mean friendly political ties between two countries who have been bitter enemies for more than sixty years.”
“I see what you’re saying, Mr. President,” Brognola said. “This is much bigger than any of us.”
“It is,” the Man confirmed. “So you see, there’s more at stake here than I believe either of you might realize. I thought, especially under these most recent circumstances, I at least owed it to you to lay my cards on the table. The disappearance of Colonel Waterston is particularly critical. It’s a little known fact Waterston and I served together during Vietnam. He was poised to be our olive branch when and if the time came. There were, or rather are, some men in Castro’s regime who respect Waterston because he’s a military man. He speaks their lingo, you see, and frankly so do I. They like that. And being military men they’re beginning to see Castro as old and weak. They figure it’s time for a change in the country, and they figure if whoever succeeds Castro isn’t up to the challenge, it’ll be up to them to make a better way of life for everyone in their country.”
“And you think they see the United States as pivotal to making that happen, sir?” Price asked.
“More than that, Barbara,” the President replied. “Crucial would be the more apt word. You see, whatever happens here on out could very well determine the fate of our future relations with the Cubans. I’m not trying to add pressure to you, either personally or to your men in the field. I also know your man didn’t have to take this job, although I don’t mind saying I’m awfully glad he’s on our side.”
Brognola couldn’t resist a wry grin and a chuckle. “I’m sure he’d appreciate knowing that, sir.”
The President nodded. “This isn’t my way of tightening the thumb screws, you understand. All I’m trying to do is to impart the fact we’re at a very critical juncture. It’s important we recover our men if they’re in Cuba, particularly Waterston, and it’s even more important we do it as quickly and quietly as possible. What we can’t afford to do is to expose our supporters there. If Castro found it, there would be public hangings.”
“I’m sure,” Brognola said. “But, Mr. President, it’s very important you understand that right now we have it on pretty good authority that Colonel Waterston might be dead.”
The President blanched and his expression went flat. Brognola hadn’t meant for that little fact to come out quite so indelicately, but there weren’t many ways to give the most powerful man in the free world bad news.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the President finally replied after a very long and very uncomfortable minute.
“I don’t know what to say, sir,” Brognola replied.
The man shrugged. “What can you say? I can only hope this is one of those times where you’re absolutely wrong. Does your man in Cuba know?”
“He’s the one who gave that to us originally.”
“Mr. President,” Price interjected, “you can be assured we’re doing everything possible to confirm or deny the information. But Striker’s operating off scant intelligence as it is. He’s playing a lot of this by ear right now.”
“Well, I don’t normally make it my business to poke my nose into field operations,” the President replied. “And I appreciate your candor. But under the circumstances, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to provide me with as many details as possible as soon as you get them, confirmed or unconfirmed.”
“Of course, sir,” Brognola replied. “Would it be terribly out of line if I asked why?”
The President appeared to consider Brognola’s request a moment and then replied, “I suppose that’s a fair question. You must understand that under no circumstances will I permit the outbreak of a full civil war in Cuba without taking significant action. And when I say action, I mean the full-scale military kind. If such hostilities were to ensue and we had exhausted every political remedy to abate them, I would be forced to order the U.S. Marines at Guantánamo to do whatever they had to, to protect the U.S. and its boundaries.”
“War?” Brognola asked. “With Cuba?”
The President cleared his throat before replying, “If necessary, yes. A Cuban civil war would threaten an already uneasy balance of power in the Western hemisphere. We cannot afford that. Peace in this region is too important to the greater interests of this country and its populace. I don’t want another missile crisis, but I don’t want a repeat of 9//11, either.”
“I suppose to some degree I can understand this rather precarious position you’re in, Mr. President,” Brognola said. “But an all-out declaration of war against Cuba seems, well…”
“Don’t beat around the bush, Hal,” the Man said. “I’ve always held your opinions in high regard. Say what you have to say.”
“I was simply going to say that it seems pretty extreme,” Brognola replied.
“Extreme is the situation at hand,” the President. “And it may call for extreme measures.”
“But we’re not there yet,” Brognola said.
“Right.”
“And you’re willing to give us some more time to hammer this out.”
“Of course, Hal.” He rose. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to Camp David.”
Brognola and Price rose accordingly and walked the President, accompanied by Able Team, to the nondescript SUV that awaited him.
Once he departed, Brognola and Price returned to the War Room.
“Barb,” Brognola said, “we need to pull everything we have on the situation down there in Cuba. Names, faces, the whole kit and caboodle. I want to know what we’re up against as soon as possible.”
“Understood,” Price said with a nod.
“Also, get Able back here as quick as possible and put Phoenix Force on full alert.”
“You’re not going to give Striker and crew a chance to resolve this?”
“Certainly,” Brognola said. “But we both know if this thing goes south we need to have a backup plan. I don’t want to get caught asleep at the wheel on this.”
“What about Waterston?” she asked.
“I don’t think there’s much we can do to confirm his status. We’ll have to rely on Striker to get that information. We should focus our efforts on the political end of this. If we stick our finger in the dike, I want it to hold, not spring another leak somewhere else. Also, I want you to pull all the plugs with the NSA. I want to know everything we have on this Havana Five, past or present. Call in favors, go over heads, threaten jobs, but do whatever you must to get us some answers. I want to know who’s running the operation down there and what they’re into. Maybe we’ll shake something loose, get a line on this ELN training camp.”
“And if we don’t?”
“At least we’ll get close enough to start making people nervous. Maybe they’ll make a mistake and expose themselves in some way.”
“Then what?”
“Then we’ll send Striker their way to do what he does best.”
CHAPTER SIX
Mack Bolan studied the layout of the two-story motel through binoculars. An innocent inquiry by Encizo revealed the motel had no air conditioning, and these July days were sweltering in Cuba. Soon the sun would start to set and with the dissipation of heat would come drowsiness for the occupants.
Dusk or dawn was the best time to conduct a military assault against any type of stronghold under any type of guard. Such an assault wouldn’t be difficult under the circumstances if what the Cuban police official had told Encizo was true. The men were being guarded by three officers. But if his plan worked there would be a lot more men there in a short period of time, and a lot of cops with a motel filled to capacity would create just the kind of confusion he needed.
Still, Bolan didn’t intend to assume either way—he liked to deal with the facts.
He swung the binoculars from his view of the motel entrance to Encizo’s position approximately fifty meters down the street. The Phoenix Force veteran held position inside a primer-gray 1984 Olds Ninety-Eight they procured from a vendor’s used lot. The vehicle would have been a find to some car enthusiasts, but it had the worn and unobtrusive look required to divert attention. Encizo sat low behind the wheel, head canted back with sunglasses to hide his open eyes. To any other observer, he would appear as just another local copping a siesta.
Bolan grinned behind the field glasses and then swung them past the motel entrance in the opposite direction. He could barely make out the lines of Jack Grimaldi. The pilot sat at a table in a sidewalk café adorned in the ridiculous poncho and hat Bolan had purchased early that morning. Grimaldi would serve as eyes and ears, with Encizo providing backup. This was Bolan’s show and his alone, and when he’d pointed that out, neither man argued with him.
Bolan studied the street, which seemed totally devoid of movement. In the past twenty minutes of his reconnaissance, he’d noted a half dozen cars had driven by. It seemed like things should be busier—much as they had been at Las Cocinitas—but surprisingly there didn’t seem to be much activity in this part of town. Then he remembered it was Saturday and this was the calm before the storm. Very shortly, the place would be teeming with people and the entire area would turn into a hubbub of activity.
Bolan stowed the binoculars and then stepped from the darkness of the rickety building into the twilight, now fading into night. The Executioner dashed across the street and reached the motel entrance unseen. He took a quick look inside, taking in the layout of the lobby—just as Encizo had described it. A petite Cuban girl, no older than sixteen or seventeen, maintained the front counter. Encizo indicated he’d spied a larger person in an adjoining office, male, maybe mid-to late-forties. Bolan figured a father-daughter team, although such an age difference in a married couple wouldn’t have surprised him.
Bolan opened the door and moved silently indoors. He crossed the lobby in three steps and withdrew the Beretta 93-R from shoulder leather. The girl looked up just as he reached the counter. She sucked in a breath and her jaw dropped, but a finger to his lips while he kept the pistol in plain view extinguished any thoughts she might have to cry out. Bolan vaulted the counter and gently steered the girl into the office by the arm. A man scribbling furiously at the desk looked up and surprise mixed with panic registered on his face. At that proximity, Bolan could see he was older than the Executioner originally surmised. The man started to speak to Bolan in Spanish.
“Quiet,” Bolan ordered him. He softened his voice as he put the girl in a chair against a nearby wall.
“¡No lastimar por favor a mi tío,” she said. “He no speak English.”
So he was her uncle. “I won’t hurt him. Will you tell him that?”
She did, and then Bolan said, “There are two men upstairs, Americans, under police guard. Yes?”
The girl nodded.
“How many?” he asked.
“What?”
“How many policemen?”
She held up three fingers and replied, “Three.”
Bolan nodded. It looked like the commandant had told Encizo the truth. The three cops weren’t really the problem, though, as much as the fact he had no idea on the conditions of Stein and Crosse. If they were injured in some way, a quick and quiet escape was out of the question. Bolan would simply have to run the plays as planned and look for the best results.