Zhang Weiming brushed at a languid fly, momentarily taking his eyes off Commodore Garcia's face.  The Cuban's immediate reaction had been just what he'd predicted it'd be---that of a tired man.  Garcia listened to what others said, sorting out what he wanted to retain, cataloging it in his orderly mind.  But he no longer offered any expression of approval or disapproval.  It wasn't so much that he was controlling his emotions any better.  Quite simply, he was tired.  The intervening time since 1960 evolved gradually from decades of challenges and excitement to years of hard work in bringing a new Cuba out of the ashes of the old.  Though tired, he still had never lost sight of Premier Suarez's ultimate goal---to reduce the United States to a radioactive wasteland.

"Of course," Zhang continued, "American intelligence will be fully aware of the approximate date your combat brigade will return from the Middle East.  It's just that there will be no indication of where we will land them.  Here....Venezuela..." He shrugged, then smiled.  "Maybe even Key West...."

Garcia looked back at him evenly, holding the Chinese admiral's stare.  He neither acknowledged the statement about American intelligence nor offered his own opinion about the returning troops.  It wasn't his decision.   He opened his humidor,  selected a cigar, and then slid the box to Zhang.  The Chinaman loved them almost as much as Garcia.  The Commodore produced a long wooden match, lighting it before offering the box to Zhang.  Both men remained silent as they held the cigars above the flames, twisting them slowly for an even burn.

Garcia stuck the cigar in his mouth, sucking deeply to insure it was correctly lit.  then he puffed slowly for a moment, enjoying the aroma.  A smile spread over his face as he studied the Chinaman.  "This thrust is something I've been looking forward to for more than thirty years."  He said to the other man.  "We Latins are impatient....passionate.  It's not been easy to wait."  He rolled the cigar between his lips, watching the smoke rise to the ceiling.  "You are sure," he queried in a higher voice," that the Americans will not be able to reinforce so fast....that your submarines can hold their own until the surface forces are ready?  You know as well as I do that they have all your submarines well-tracked.  You can't surprise them..."

"Does the crane find joy in the expected flight?" the Chinaman said. "You must recognize that the true strength of a submarine does not lie solely in its ability to remain unseen.  Just knowing that they are present is enough to make the most aggressive commander take heed.  That," he emphasized, poking the air with an index finger, "is the implied threat."  Zhang studied Garcia's features as he had done so many times.  It seemed that the Chinaman had been an advisor in Cuba since the days of Castro.  The two men had known each other for years, and been as close to being friends as the Commodore would allow a non-Cuban to be.

It occurred to Zhang that there was more gray in the Cuban's always neatly trimmed hair.  And the hairline was receding faster now, no doubt about that. The face seemed puffy, perhaps indicative of declining health, and the circles under the tired eyes were darker.  Each telltale indication of approaching age reinforced the decision in Beijing to proceed now, to challenge the American tiger within its home territory.  This Cuban, the commander of their little navy, was tired, anxious, and fanatic to a fault to challenge the Americans, just like his leader.  Premier Suarez, Zhang knew, wanted to be the linchpin, the pebble that started the avalanche, the single most vital factor in humiliating the Americans, forcing them back within the borders of their own country.  And Beijing knew that now was the time to take advantage of Suarez, and of Garcia, to utilize these men they had been so patient in grooming for more than thirty years.....now that they were tired and seemed increasingly worried that the Chinese might not support them in this final effort.

The Commodore stroked his chin thoughtfully.  Frankly, he had no concern about the problems he often voiced to Zhang--and none whatsoever about the Americans.  He had long ago discarded any worries he might have about American reactions.  In his opinion, the Cubans had the Chinese in their back pocket, and as long as they were committed to this venture into the Caribbean, he regarded the Americans with contempt.  Although Zhang had often reminded him of the Chinese president's statement---"Cuba is our indomitable warship in the Caribbean, ready to unleash devastation upon the United States"------eventually, Garcia realized, Cuba would be more than that, much, much more---and so would he.

Garcia looked back at Zhang.  "Zhang, I'm exhausted.  You may find that hard to believe, but I'm afraid it's true."

Now, there was no expression on the Chinaman's face, no acknowledgment of what he knew to be true. 

"I have waited for so long.  The years have taken their toll."  He sighed, almost to himself, puffing contentedly on his cigar.  "Would you be surprised if I told you I would like to step down after it's all over?'

The Chinaman nodded slowly, almost as if he were agreeing with his friend about a change in the weather.

"I'd like to spend more free time---watching baseball games," Garcia added wistfully.  "Maybe after we're through, El Primer Ministro will insist the Americans establish a baseball team in our capital...."