Caribbean Standoff - Fortaleza del Pueblo

Harry Locke strode purposefully down the wide walkway between the military headquarters buildings. With the palm trees and flower beds outlined by the evenly spaced lights, it seemed more like a pleasant resort area. The drab sameness of the military-style buildings could not be discerned at this hour of the night.

Anyone who passed by noted that the Costa Rican, Lieutenant Holla, was out for a late evening stroll. Harry Locke had decided within moments after his run-in with the dog the other night that there was less purpose in sneaking about these security-deficient buildings than in just wandering about as if you belonged. The experience with the dog was something he had no intention of encountering again. His odds, he was sure, would be considerably lower a second time.

The buildings were secured at midnight. That was when the dogs were set loose. Before then, there was usually someone working late, and security was negligible at that point---only the occasional foot patrols by Cuban troops. So Locke decided Lieutenant Holla was the wiser choice to be in the building this time.

Admiral Zhang 's office was on the top floor. Except for a secretary, he was the only occupant. She was never there past six in the evening. If Locke understood Zhang----and he was sure he could predict what Carmen Arrostito would do----he could have the run of the Admiral's office as long as he wanted. However, he had every intention of being out of there before the buildings were secured at midnight. He knew just what he was looking for and he had managed in the last few nights to narrow it down to Zhang's office. If it wasn't there, then he'd have to start over.

A Cuban sentry at the entrance saluted him as he mounted the steps. That was amazing! No one was required to sign in and out after normal working hours---there was no access control! The Chinese had been completely acclimatized. No wonder these Chinese instructors boasted how long they had been in Fortaleza del Pueblo. Imagine duty in the frozen peaks of the Himalayas when this was available. And Zhang's weakness had been encouraged this evening to a certainty.

There were stairs at each end of the hall and in the middle of the building. Locke had studied the few lighted offices from both sides and had already determined his path. Passing through the front entrance, he went straight ahead up the center stairs, turning to his right on the second floor. There he took the flight at the end of the building to the third level. To get to Zhang's office on the floor above, there were only center stairs, and he was forced to pass one occupied office as he moved in that direction. But that meant only one person other than the guard out front, would be able to report that Lieutenant Holla had been seen in the building. What the hell, Locke muttered to himself. After this Holla would be a dead duck in Fortaleza del Pueblo anyway.

As he ascended the stairs, darkness softly welcomed Holla/Locke. He preferred the comfort of virtual invisibility. His night vision, always superb, adapted quickly. The penlight would illuminate details once he was sure he would be alone.

Locke stood in the middle of the room, slowly turning in a circle, noting the placement of every item. There was always the chance he could hide, or even position himself to gain the advantage over anyone who might enter. Precautions just such as this had saved his neck more times than he could count.

Enough light reflected in from the outside to create vague shadows. Locke moved about the room, intent on his own shadow's motion. Good men, some of whom he'd worked with, had died because of the flickering movement in a dark room seen by someone on the outside. Never go to work, Locke learned long ago, until you are comfortable with yourself.

Senior Chinese officers generally were precise and neat in their work almost to a fault. That was partly the party, which left their lives only in sleep, and perhaps a good deal more because of those around them who schemed for power. The mannerisms of efficiency could often be said to be a matter of self-preservation. Such was no longer the case with Admiral Zhang. Locke was sure of that in less than a minute as he scanned the working area of the Chinese officer. He had grown lax away from his homeland. There was no longer anyone to fear. There were scattered documents on his desk and nearby surfaces, but Locke quickly realized that none of the digital files or printouts held any useful information for him. He easily accessed the encrypted digital storage with a device he always carried. Inside, he found files containing ship names, coded call signs, station assignments, weapons inventory, and a wealth of data valuable to Binghamton and his team. He quickly downloaded and encrypted copies of the files for later analysis.

There were other digital files he copied instinctively, though there was little time to assess their value at the moment. Binghamton's intelligence team could handle that. Yet, in the back of Locke's mind, he couldn't shake the feeling that such lax security might hide something even more valuable, likely in an unexpected place.

On his hands and knees, he carefully began a search from a different aspect. He had long ago learned that what could be observed from one plane looked different from another. His penlight illuminated Zhang's office from a wholly new perspective as he slowly crawled about the room. There seemed to be nothing---still a Chinese, he thought, though now slightly lapsed in discipline.

Locke was about to give up when the faint beam from his tactical flashlight briefly illuminated something under the desk. He crawled closer, pushing the chair aside for a better look. What he found was exactly what his instincts had urged him to seek out. There, in perfect order, was Zhang's digital map, displayed on a tablet with a transparent overlay that allowed him to move virtual assets and annotate positions. The map spanned the entire Caribbean, from Florida to the northern coast of South America, from the Atlantic to all of Central America. It was like having a spy in the enemy's command center at the peak of a battle. Locke quickly activated his miniature camera, capturing detailed images of the map with all its annotations, section by section. With this, combined with the data from Zhang's files, Binghamton would have a clear view of much of the Chinese strategy.

Locke considered that perhaps more could be found, though he couldn't imagine anything could surpass what he'd already recorded. A glance at his watch convinced him to leave well enough alone. It was almost midnight. That was when the building would be secured and the dogs would be turned loose for the night. No reason to challenge luck any further. Very cautiously he recreated his progress through Zhang's office. That was another aspect of his training. Go back the same way you'd come. You can cover anything you might have overlooked, for your protection.

He slipped out the door, leaving all exactly as it had been, and retraced his steps down the same stairways, past the same offices, and toward the front entryway. It was then he heard the sound of the dogs. Locke glanced at his watch---midnight! The Chinese sentries were coming to relieve the Cubans.

As he stepped through the doorway into the cool, pleasant night, he saw the Chinese guard not thirty feet away, his rifle slung across his shoulder. Two huge shepherds were pulling at their leashes, low growls emanating from their throats as they saw the Cuban guard first, and then Locke.

The Chinese stepped ten feet away, studying Locke intently. He could tell easily that this man was no Chinaman, yet he was emerging from a building that housed mostly Chinese officers and Zhang's staff. He made no effort to quiet the straining dogs, instead calling out in pidgin Spanish, "What are you doing here, comrade?"

Locke turned to the Cuban sentry, whose eyes were riveted on the now-snarling animals. "You can explain to him that I had permission to work inside with one of the instructors." It was an order.

The Cuban, eyes still riveted on the dogs, came to half-hearted attention in response to the authority in Locke's voice. "Yes, sir."

"Tell him!" barked Locke. The Cuban's concentration stayed on the dogs.

"Yes, sir." The Cuban came to full attention. "He had the instructor's permission."

The Chinaman studied Locke again, then motioned with his hand for him to pass by. In the background, as he moved as calmly away from the building as he could, Locke could hear the Chinaman berating the other sentry for letting him stay inside the building after all others had left. Locke looked back for a brief moment. There wasn't a light in the building. He had been the last one out and would not be overlooked tomorrow. It was time to join Waverly.

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Commodore Garcia frowned at the empty humidor on his desk. The Panamanian, Cato, had taken the last cigar when he departed. If he had realized it was the final one, it was likely that he would have refused politely. Garcia knew the man loved that brand. So he had insisted, taking it out before Cato could refuse, insisting that he accept the Commodore's generosity.

Garcia had emerged from the rugged Angolan highlands with Alejandro Suarez. In those days, Santos had been his brother's right hand. Years after Santos' death, Garcia rose to become Premier Suarez's most trusted advisor. There was no one else to replace; it was simply that Suarez preferred the isolation. By the time they marched into Luanda, Garcia was a colonel, a very young one whose tactical brilliance had been recognized by the revolutionary leader. It was only natural, from Suarez's viewpoint, that a colonel who had grown up in a fishing village should be responsible for developing a new Cuban Navy. The rundown rusting hulks that the former regime had accepted from the old U.S.S.R. were quickly disposed of, and the newly named Commodore Garcia began piecing together a coastal defense force with Chinese aid, begging and coercing, using Suarez's bargaining skill to develop a respectable fleet.

The Commodore's age was a mystery to those who didn't know him well, though now the stress of his responsibilities had tired him. He could have stepped out of an American recruiting poster. His height and weight were average, his hair was brown and closely trimmed, his uniforms were tailored, his shoes constantly spit-polished, and he was unlike many of his colleagues because he avoided both a beard and a mustache. Garcia was very aware of his appearance, and he was equally concerned with the importance of a spotless reputation. He belonged at Suarez's right hand.

The Cuban naval leader certainly wasn't feeling generous, and he was tired as usual, but it was a way of hiding his anger. Cato had not stopped by to pass the time of day. Instead, he had arrogantly proffered a series of problems that Garcia didn't want to hear. Maybe, on reflection, it wasn't arrogance. There was a childlike enthusiasm on Garcia's part that compensated for a half-smirk that seemed to say, I told you so.

Admiral Zhang Weiming, up to that particular day, had the Commodore's complete trust. As an admiral representing what was becoming one of the most powerful nations on earth, he had ingratiated himself with the Cuban power structure. Gradually, even Suarez had come to depend on the Chinaman.

Now, here was Lorenzo Garcia coming to him with proof of Zhang's dalliances----with all the women in Fortaleza del Pueblo he could have had, he had Carmen Arrostito! That was too much, especially when Cato had relaxed in the chair opposite the desk and smiled as he placed a copy of his report on Garcia's desk. Carmen Arrostito! She was the one with the mirrors who delighted in hypnotizing her men with her body. Alejandro Suarez had once seen pictures of Carmen and her talents. They'd been all the proof necessary for the executions of one of his generals and a senior government official.

She would ply them with drink, to loosen them up he had been told, though he couldn't understand the necessity. His intelligence people had indicated that some of the recordings made in her apartment contained revelations about the workings of the PRAFC and government that would have been most valuable to any foreign agent, but no one bothered to remove Carmen from the picture. There was always the chance that she could one day be useful to them. And it seemed that whatever she heard, she kept secret. Either she was too dumb or she just didn't realize that the intelligence she was privy to could bring her more than she would ever earn from her body. What they never understood was that she liked what she was doing!

But there was always a first time, even for the Carmen Arrostitoses of the world, and her downfall, Garcia realized, would be Zhang Weiming, Beijing's number of strategist in the Caribbean. Zhang was supposed to be the most dependable man Beijing could provide, the most dedicated, the most.....he couldn't bear to repeat to himself all the fine reports he'd been given on Zhang. Garcia stroked his chin thoughtfully----a dalliance with a woman like Arrostito---and shook his head in despair.

Garcia opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a fresh box of cigars. As he lifted them gently out of the box one by one and placed them in the humidor, he considered the second item that Cato laid before him. While Admiral Zhang had been carousing into the early hours with Senorita Arrostito, someone had likely been in his office. Once again this had come from one of Garcia's snoopers. Why was Suarez's intelligence unaware of this sub-group? One of the students from the military school, Lieutenant Holla, had been seen leaving the building in the middle of the night. Further investigation indicated that it was likely he'd been in Zhang's office because certain officers had been working late on other floors. They had seen no one enter or leave their areas. Zhang was the only occupant on this floor!

Garcia considered his options. He could appeal to the Chinese Premier. On second thought, why fool himself? As far as Beijing was concerned, this was a Chinese operation. Admiral Zhang was the man in charge, even though he would remain in the background while Alejandro Suarez did the arm waving. No, there was no point in going to them. Besides, things were too far along. They couldn't hope to find someone with Zhang's background at this stage, and there was no firm proof that the man had done anything more than let his dirty mind get the better of him.

Garcia knew at this point that there was more to this operation than met the eye. He knew about the Colombian destroyer. That part Garcia felt he could pull off himself. But all those ships and submarines required a tradition in naval thinking, and Garcia had to admit that his strengths were primarily oriented to land operations.

One afternoon, he remembered, Zhang Weiming had invited Garcia to his office, where he cataloged the vast amount of firepower that was planned. It was truly fascinating, but afterward, Garcia's brain was whirling with missiles, radars, electronic countermeasures and counter-countermeasures, and submarine tactics.....so much, that he had to trust the specialists and their claims.

It was the big picture Commodore Garcia understood, especially intelligence, deception, and disinformation. And he was no fool when it came to the United States. He would leave the planning, the fine-tuning, and the changes of strategy and tactics to Zhang. But now he had to keep his eye on the Chinaman, until it was all over. He didn't want to deny the man his Carmen if that's the way his tastes leaned, but the objective was too important to allow Zhang to fall victim to his baser instincts. Suarez would be furious.

And now, he thought morosely, there was even the chance of enemy knowledge of the operation. This Lieutenant Holla, the one Cato said had been recognized near Zhang's office that night, was nowhere to be found. It was odd that one of the most brilliant students they'd ever had in the school had suddenly disappeared. If these suspicions were true, Garcia wondered how much this Holla, or whoever he was, had taken with him. Were all those sophisticated plans that Zhang had shown him that afternoon now in Holla's mind? Those submarines and cruisers and missiles and chokepoints---and that old destroyer intended to lull the Americans to sleep?

There was so much thinking to be done, and he was so tired. For a brief moment he reflected on the pleasure he might gain from wandering down to the closest baseball field and maybe join a pickup game, maybe help some youngsters. It was only a few blocks away, and it was what he truly wanted to do....88Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP2Wj8hmqHy

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Fortaleza del Pueblo

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