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Cipriano Cato squinted against the bright sunlight and the reflection from the cream-colored buildings in the central square of Fortaleza del Pueblo. He walked slowly toward the harbor, pondering his meeting earlier in the day with the Premier himself, Alejandro Suárez. It had been more than satisfactory. The only aspect causing him even the slightest concern was the presence for a short time of the Chinaman, Zhang. But Suarez had caught Cato's antipathy toward the other man and had sent him out. Cato had sensed, rather than been assured, that Suarez bore identical feelings toward the Chinese. Did the Cubans suffer the Chinese simply for their aid, as Cato had promised the others back in Panama?
A fresh breeze skittering across the harbor ruffled his hair. He pushed the wisps back from his forehead, then smoothed them down to the side with his palm. The only element of vanity Cato had ever possessed was concern for his baldness. He was not an atypical university professor----no beard, goatee, or mustache, nor did he display affectations such as earrings, wild clothing, or dark glasses in the classroom. He appeared more like a business executive. Cato wore neat, tailored suits, mostly dark or dark pinstripe, and his white shirts and conservative ties never fit in with the dress on campus. He was a reasonably well-known economist, and he looked the part. No taller than his daughter, the tailored suits looked good on him because his body was trim. Many felt he worked hard to look so fit; Catalina Cato said it was nerves. Nothing anyone ever said about him was cause for alarm, except for the baldness. His hair was long on the sides and embarrassingly subject to the deviltry of the breezes. He was constantly patting it into place.
The clean, fresh scent of salt air came to him. A cooling breeze from the harbor brought the additional scents of fish, paint, and diesel fuel. Cato often wandered down to the docks to clear his head, because these visits to Fortaleza del Pueblo were mentally demanding. The financial burden of funding the guerilla forces rested on his shoulders. Cipriano Cato, a respected senior professor at Panama's national university, was the conduit for the money that supported the PRAFC (People's Revolutionary Armed Forces of Cuba). He also coordinated the arms shipments that made their way into the rebels' hands and arranged for their officers to be sent to Cuba for training.
Alejandro Suarez was first a mercenary in Angola. But he respected men such as Cato because revolutions in the 21st century were so much different than the Cold War days when revolutionaries could come out of their mountain strongholds and crush the corrupt juntas of their countries. The Premier knew that glory still anointed the soldiers, but he went out of his way to work with the administrators, like Cato, who were the real leaders. And, although he no longer believed it himself, Suarez took the time to convince men like Cato that the Chinese simply wanted to assist in Peoples' Revolutions. Once accomplished, Beijing wanted only to assist the new governments in getting started.
That's what worried Cato more than anything else at this stage, for he considered himself a true patriot----a Panamanian first and foremost, not a communist or a Maoist in the true sense of the terms. The current government in Panama City was a fraud. It could not---should not----survive as it existed. Cato was firmly convinced that a socialist system that was part of a unified front, as first envisioned by the great Fidel Castro, was the only form that would benefit Panama. The other countries in Central America were more advanced in this regard. Nicaragua was the second after Cuba to welcome the Chinese; El Salvador and Guatemala were thinking it over; the Americans were prolonging the inevitable in Honduras. Only Costa Rica would be a problem, but Suarez felt that the little country would fall without a fight, for they attempted to survive without an army. Suck naivete meant simply that Beijing could buy out the country and put any kind of government they wanted in San Jose.
Cato sat on a park bench overlooking the harbor and lit the cigar that Suarez, himself, had given him. Cato often came to this very spot, even to this same bench, whenever he had the time, mostly to relax his mind and watch the young women pass. But today there seemed to be more Chinese than anyone else. Sailors, mostly Chinese, were in evidence, though there were also a few of their green-uniformed marines. They came in from the big warships tugging gently at their anchors in the harbor. Today there were two cruisers, bristling with guns and missiles. He had never seen more than one before. There were also two destroyers, new ones that dwarfed the smaller Cuban frigates. And then there were the ones that troubled him the most---the sleek black submarines, so lethal with only their sails and a bit of their hulls above the surface. Again, there were more than he had ever seen before in the harbor.
So often he had heard the promise, so much that he feared it was a meaningless, dreary litany---the Chinese came in peace to help the peoples of the Third World, and they would return to their homeland as soon as their job was done. But would they? Would the harbor once again contain only Cuban ships? Would the sailors who strode the wharves, eyeing the girls just as he did, be only Cuban? Cato had been promised so often that this would be the case that he wanted to believe it. He believed strongly that what he was doing was right and this was his only doubt. He tried to push it from his mind, but sometimes it kept him awake at night.89Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGALvTl9H7h
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Zhang Weiming jogged happily in the hard sand along the beach, occasionally diverting to the water's edge to cool his feet. This was a superb duty! he thought. His stomach had flattened in the last few months; his muscle tone had improved, and he was fully in keeping with his high regard for himself. He had been raised by a well-off family according to Chinese standards, well fed, trained in the proper sports since he was a child, and sent to the right schools, which led to admission to the military academies. Zhang benefitted from his upbringing---his teeth were white and healthy and he had retained them all, he had grown faster than most boys, and diet and physical training had left him tall and well-proportioned. The result was a handsome, aristocratic-looking naval officer, now graying slightly at the temples but striking in full dress uniform.
He had a tan, and he wrote ecstatically about it to his friends back home. Unless they were lucky and received the Indian Ocean or South China Sea assignments, few of them could remember what a tan was from year to year. Even his wife had remarked on the new Zhang....Mei, fully aware of Zhang's roving eye, had shed some pounds herself, once she found that the Cuban women were generally slender.
Zhang had not undertaken this personal improvement program just for Mei. There was Carmen, his current Cuban lover, and there had been others during his long stay in Fortaleza del Pueblo. Although his comrades back in China would write to explain that his extensions for duty in Cuba were ruining his chances for future promotion, they were unable to understand. A man like Zhang needed duty in Beijing, and one more major command, for he had been considered as having potential to climb near the top.
Now he could no longer bring himself to worry about such mundane things. Beijing was far away, the winters there were long and cold, and Mei was as pleased as he to remain in Fortaleza del Pueblo---pleased enough to even look the other way and shrug if the few other Chinese wives mentioned seeing Zhang at such and such a restaurant. Life was good here. After the firm base his predecessors had established over so many years---long, hard years in remote jungles and mountains, forming peoples' revolutionary armies and militias----it was all coming to fruition. And Zhang Weiming was repeating the benefits as one Caribbean government after another tottered and then crumbled, right in the Americans' backyard.
He turned toward the blue water and ran directly out, his knees high until he tumbled forward and stroked easily out towards the deeper water. Floating on his back, he considered the Panamanian who had been in Suarez's office earlier today. Cato was just one more of those banana republic patriots who thought a revolution could be financed without charging interest, that the country providing the brains and money would just fold its tent and wander off into the sun like a knight searching for one more dragon to slay. They never seemed to understand.
Zhang rolled onto his stomach, arched his body, and dove to the bottom. With short powerful strokes, he swam just above the sand until his lungs ached, then shot to the surface, breaking the water with a gasp. It was a good feeling to exert his body once again. He felt younger than he had in years, and he was anxious now to complete the Panamanian deal. Chinese patience, coupled with proper timing, would be rewarded. The new governments would be as strong as Suarez's, and the Gulf of Mexico would be re-christened the South China Gulf to emphasize his people's territorial presence and geopolitical significance in the Western Hemisphere; best of all, such success would make up for his lack of duty in Beijing.
As he turned toward the beach, he saw Mei strolling down to meet him, looking fabulous in her bikini. If she hadn't been his wife, he might have had designs on her that afternoon. Cuban life had done so much for her that she would no longer be recognized if they returned home. But she would have to wait. He had explained to Mei that he had to meet with Commodore Garcia, the head of the Cuban navy, for a long dinner----though in fact, tonight was Carmen's night.89Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡM8wmD5e2qZ
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The instructor had noticed twice now that Holla was paying little attention to the lecture. The others were most attentive, some taking notes, others following along in the Chinese manual that had been poorly translated into Spanish. The Qilin-23 rocket launcher was not effective at a distance, but it was superb for close-in work, and these students would generally operate that way back in Panama.
"Holla!" he finally shouted in dismay. He was sure that he had seen the man's eyes closing. How could that happen, knowing they would have demonstration firings that afternoon? "Firing the Qilin is just one of the things you have to know. You must also know how to dismantle and repair....even during a firefight. You can't learn that sleeping, Holla. Stand up."
Harry Locke leaped to attention beside his chair. It was true, he had been dozing. Locke knew better, but he also knew more about the Qilin-23 than the instructor would ever know. He'd probably used it more too, in firefights, and ambushes....he had taken one apart once in the dark when they had been pinned down, and jury-rigged it so they had knocked out a tank when it was within thirty yards of them.
He stood at attention as he addressed the instructor in Spanish. "I apologize, sir. My eyes were closed against the heat, but I was listening...."
The instructor reeled off a series of questions---the muzzle velocity, the weight of a single round, maximum effective range, steps to take after misfire---and as he asked each one, Harry Locke responded immediately and accurately. His appearance was that of a man who could have been named Holla. Locke was of medium height and build. His brown hair had been allowed to grow longer for this mission. It even curled around his ears. Locke didn't like that at all, but Admiral Binghamton had insisted it was an essential part of his cover, and Harry Locke understood the value of cover more than any other man. The mustache didn't appeal to Locke either, and even his wife, Lorena, had found it increasingly distasteful as it drooped over the corners of his mouth.
There had been a man named Holla. He was a lieutenant in the Costa Rican police----even though this was a military organization, they were designated police because the government boasted there was no need for an army in their democracy. Sitting back in his chair in his Pentagon office a week ago, Admiral Binghamton had explained to Harry Locke that Costa Rica had been selected because that country rarely sent people to the school in Fortaleza del Pueblo, and hardly a soul in Cuba knew anything about the junior officers from that little country. Locke never said how he acquired the list of students in that Cuban school, or how he'd determined that it was the logical place for Locke to infiltrate. On the other hand, Locke never questioned Locke's methods or reasons. They were always sound.
When Binghamton showed Locke the photo of Holla, taken only a few days previously, the similarity of their facial and physical characteristics was remarkable. There was also no purpose in asking about the photo or the orders this Holla had received. Admiral Binghamton's network was that efficient.
The original Lieutenant Holla was now very dead. Harry Locke had seen to that, immediately after the young man had been feted by his friends for the promotion which must surely come soon after he finished school in Fortaleza del Pueblo. As Holla stumbled back to his quarters, Locke stopped him. Perhaps even in his drunken stupor, the young Costa Rican had noticed their strong resemblance. If he had, the recognition was limited. His dispatch was very humane and painless because Locke wanted to study the younger man's features to cover anything that hadn't been clear in the photos. As a result, Locke darkened his hair slightly that night, added a bit more stain to his skin, and happily trimmed his mustache. Afterward, he made sure three would never be a body found. Holla's life was cut off much too early because an admiral in Washington had seen his photo and arranged for orders that the young man had been so thankful for; he had thought he was one of the lucky few.
When the plane left the capital city of Costa Rica the following day for Fortaleza del Pueblo, Holla's friends did not doubt that it was their friend, quiet because he was so badly hung over, who boarded the airplane with a solemn wave in their direction. Both his friends and his senior officers would have been astonished at the brilliance of their associate during his brief stay at the school in Havana.
The answers from the sleepy Costa Rican surprised the instructor. Students like Holla were odd in Fortaleza del Pueblo. Mostly they were either uneducated parents eager to hit back at the landowners or idealistic upper-class students more interested in experimenting with the Chinese way than in facing the dangers common to a guerilla fighter. This Holla responded like a professional.
Harry Locke was a professional, as professional as they came. Trained as a Navy SEAL, he was able to function effectively underwater, on the surface, as a paratrooper, an infantryman, a guerilla---just about anything Binghamton concocted for him. Locke was also a linguist. Within days after his meeting with Binghamton, he had resurrected the regional Spanish dialect he had once mastered.
There was a mystique surrounding Locke. Among those who knew him well, it was accepted purely as an accomplished professional trait. Outside of the intelligence network he was regarded with awe. But Admiral Binghamton never stuck his nose in too far until he was sure of his purpose. He felt the only way he could fully comprehend the methods of what he saw as a final "liberation" of Panama was to insert one of his own in the guerilla training programs, and those took place in Cuba. Since the CIA couldn't tell who was in charge of the programs or what their ultimate goal was, there was no other way to quickly get to the root of the problem. The Cubans were intent on changing the face of the Caribbean. Initially, violence was the vehicle---so long as violence or even the threat existed the Americans could not hope to sustain any illusion of progress. The Chinese were hovering in the background, and it was apparent to Binghamton that Harry Locke was the logical operative to get to the source. While Congress urged the White House not to interfere with their neighbors to the south, Binghamton knew there was no choice. It was no longer a matter of politics. Closing one's eyes never made a problem go away.
Binghamton had created a multi-phase plan. He knew that Harry would know when it was time to leave Fortaleza del Pueblo. He would disappear just as easily as he had assimilated himself into the school. And when Harry Locke was once again on his own, he would undertake the second phase of his mission---join forces with Newton Waverly. They worked well together. 89Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2UIPDRe6n4
