Hawke

“Remember what you did at the last one?”

“No. I try to forget these things.”

“Halfway through, you stood up and a

“Ah, yes. Mustn’t overcook lamb. Quite a good one, wasn’t it?”

“Okay, my man.” The secretary of state grabbed her coat from the back of a chair and headed for the door without looking back.

“ ’Bye, Conch.”

“Scoot over and borrow a cup of sugar anytime,” she said, pulling the door closed behind her.

31

Manso and his two brothers, Carlos and Juanito, stood together at the very end of a long jetty. Waves were breaking over the rocks, soaking the three men to the skin. There was no moon and no stars, only the raging sea. It was a miserable Cuban night. It was a magnificent Cuban night.

Manso, shivering in the cold rain, was aglow inside. He’d done it. They had all done it. The country would soon learn that a new Cuba was about to be born. Right now, looking at their exuberant smiles, he felt like this small band of brothers were the three happiest men in all of Cuba.

They stood on the concrete jetty, just at the base of a newly installed red cha

It was almost midnight and raining hard, but they didn’t care. In the long, tortuous history of their country, this was a moment of historic importance. The de Herreras brothers were euphoric as they peered through the slashing rain, out across the black water.

“Anything?” Manso asked.

“I thought I saw something,” Carlos said, “but I think it’s only salt water in my eyes.” He took a swig from a silver flask and stuck the container back inside his jacket.

“You’re going to see something, mi hermano,” Juanito said, laughing and clapping him on the back. “You are definitely going to see a great big something!” All three men had night-vision binoculars hanging from their necks.

Nothing.

“The television was a disaster,” Manso said, after a few more moments of sca

“Who cares?” Carlos asked. “He’s irrelevant. Right now, all the Cuban people know is that he missed a telecast. Unfortunate. But remember that they saw him at the Yacht Club only this morning. The Granma reporter was there, so it will be in the paper. If he ultimately refuses to go before the cameras, so what? You and Fulgencio will a

“It’s better if Fidel does it, Carlitos,” Juanito insisted. “Easier for all of us. In the long run, the people won’t care. But, for now, I—”

“Listen. I have an idea,” Manso said. “I was talking after supper to the video technician. He tells me we can make him say whatever we want.”

“Of course we can always do that.” Carlos laughed. “Rodrigo and his silver scissors can make anyone say anything.”

“I don’t mean that way, Carlitos,” Manso said, looking at his crazy brother Carlos with eyes like black stones.

“You mean there is another way?” Juanito asked.

“There is a way to digitally alter his speech and lip movements,” Manso said. “As long as it’s kept very short.”

“How short?” Juanito asked. “You mean, like, ‘I quit, here’s the new guy’?” He laughed and took another pull on his flask.

“My God, look at that,” Carlos said. “Look!”

“Turn on the lights!” Manso said. Carlos flipped a switch mounted on the base of the cha

All three raised their binoculars and aimed them in the direction Carlos had pointed.

“There!” he said. “See it?”

“Where? Oh … Mother of Christ!”

Out of the sea came the head of the monster, black and knife-edged, its V-shaped snout spewing not fire but boiling white water as it rose ever higher into the rain-whipped skies. It was a dull deadly black, looking like some evil engineer’s nightmare machine. There was in fact no more efficient killing device on earth.

“I told you you were going to see something, my brothers!” Juanito shouted. “Oh, my God, look at this thing! Have you ever seen anything so huge?”

The deadly thing was still rising, a froth of white water pouring off the sleek, sharp-angled sides of its twin swept-back hulls and diving planes. Then that amazing snout came crashing down into the sea and the submarine surged toward the jetties. It was immense.

Water broke over her V-bow. They heard an alarm and saw something rising slowly from the forward-most part of the hull, another sharply angled shape with faint lights glowing from within. Then the structure was looming above the decks, and they understood at once that this was the retractable co

A powerful searchlight on the sub’s tower was illuminated and swept back and forth across the river’s entrance.

Manso couldn’t make out any faces, of course, the men were just black figures at this distance, but he knew the identity of one of them. Then he caught a face in his powerful night-vision glasses.

“Commander Nikita Zukov,” Manso said under his breath. “Welcome to Cuba. We’ve been expecting you.”

The three brothers embraced, rain splashing on their faces. It was a moment they seemed to have been imagining forever. But their imaginations had been capable of nothing so grand as the events of the day and this sight and this historic night.

The mammoth black-winged creature from the deep was now entering the mouth of the river. It was the most stu

“Well, my brave brothers, I have a question for you,” he said, gathering them together. “Walk with me.”

Arm in arm, they started walking back along the jetty, toward the sub pen. They wanted to be inside the newly constructed pen with the construction crews and all the on-shore support teams when the sub made its dramatic appearance.

“Just one little question,” Manso said, looking back at the sub sliding majestically toward them.

“Sн, Manso?” they replied in unison.

“I want to know, my brothers, exactly how does it feel to be a super-power?”

Laughing, the three men raced ahead of the submarine back towards the pen. The huge doors were sliding open, revealing the cavernous interior. Light poured out and so did many of the workers, charged with excitement at the sight of the approaching sub.

It was hard to say who was more excited, the Cubans or the Russians. There were over a hundred Russian electronic engineers, machinists, plumbers, electricians, and various nuclear technicians. They’d been working side by side with the Cubans for months, building the necessary machine and tool shops it would take to support such a sophisticated nuclear submarine.

As the giant sub finally eased into the wide mouth of her slip, there was a deafening roar as the men surged down the floating docks ru

Commander Nikita Zukov stood atop the towering sail of his submarine, surveying the sea of activity taking place all around him. He had his hands over his ears to block out the terrible sound. It wasn’t the sound of the arc welders or the steelworkers still putting the finishing touches on the sub pen that bothered him. It was a small orchestra struggling through yet another rehearsal of the Cuban national anthem.