Cliff Ryder - The Powers That Be

“Keep heading south until you’re about fifteen miles out.

Anyone gives you trouble—you know what to do,” Jonas called back.

Karen nodded, arms folded tight across her stomach.

The older man settled in at the helm and directed Marcus to cast off the mooring line. He fired up the engines and reversed away from the yacht, then turned the sleek go-fast boat south and accelerated until they were speeding across the calm Atlantic Ocean.

Marcus alternated between prepping their equipment, keeping an eye out for hostile ships and watching Jonas pilot the boat. Jonas stood stock-still, guiding the craft with minute adjustments of the wheel, but this time there was no disguise, no subterfuge in him. Dressed in tiger-stripe camouflage, with a matching cap on his head, load-bearing web gear over his chest and a pistol on his hip, he looked like what he was—a professional soldier on the way to execute his duty, one who wouldn’t let anyone or anything get in his way.

The younger man finished his premission checklist and readied both Jonas’s and his packs. They had over half an hour to go, and there was one nagging question on Marcus’s mind. “Can I ask you a question?”

Jonas answered without looking at him. “Yeah, if you keep your eyes open on your side.”

Marcus was already scanning the dark waters on his right.

“I know why we’re going back. My question is, why not let it happen? Why not let the Castros get capped and the people remake the country and lead themselves for a change?”

Jonas’s flat gaze flicked over at Marcus. “ Verdammt, you been talking to Castilo recently?”

“Hey, I know it wouldn’t be easy, but even a few hundred, or even thousand eggs broken would be worth the possibility of establishing a more democratic nation in the Caribbean, one that could serve to project our interests to other nations like Haiti and also put others farther south and east on notice that a change is beginning in the area.”

“Spoken like a true Washington policy wonk.” Jonas’s eyes never left the horizon as he spoke. “That method of regime change has already been tried. The U.S. government overthrew Cuba’s government early in the twentieth century, replaced a democracy with a theocracy in Iran, worked with—and then against Hussein against Iran—before invading that little corner of Middle Eastern paradise, helped destabilize Chile, which led to Pinochet assuming power, toppled the South Vietnamese government and several others throughout Central America, all of which led to instability in each country and region.”

Marcus opened his mouth to reply, but Jonas cut him off by stabbing at the dashboard with his finger. “Every single time. Meanwhile, countries like Libya have come around to a more cooperative way of thinking, without anyone having to bomb them back to the Stone Age. The point is, odds are that decapitating the head of the snake—and he is a despotic bastard, make no mistake about it—would tear the country apart, no matter what rosy predictions government analysts a thousand miles away have made. Like it or not, there is still a strong faction that clings to the notion of communism being a good thing. There are even students there who think it can still work, despite the ample evidence to the contrary. As much as we don’t like it, the only way to really help Cuba is to gradually let nature take its course. The brothers won’t last forever, and when they’re gone, your country, mine and others will be waiting to help Cubans really help themselves.”

Marcus was silent for a long moment, considering his reply. “It’s just that—I saw how people had to live over there, while rich European tourists jet in, visit the local culture and jet out again. I know this isn’t the only place it happens, but it just seems so wrong, particularly when they insist on following this backward path.”

“Well, I think you’re correct, but it’s also happening all over the world—only in many places, there aren’t any tourists. While Room 59 may not be able to do everything, we can at least try to ensure that some places don’t get any worse. If given the opportunity to prevent a dictatorship from rising, I’m sure any of us would leap at the chance to nip it in the bud, but what we’re heading into—doing what many would see as the wrong thing for the right reason, that’s the really hard choice to make. Bottom line is, the more palatable solution is to not accelerate change so quickly that the island destroys itself, but to ensure that when they’re ready to make that change—and I think they will be, in time—they can do so without resorting to another violent revolution. I don’t know about you, but I’ve seen plenty of civil wars, and they’re never a good thing.”

“Yeah.” Marcus turned back to the ocean, mulling over what Jonas had said. It was true that the American involve- ment in manipulating foreign governments had often resulted in worse conditions. But there were isolated victories, too, he thought, like removing Noriega from Panama, and taking out Milosevic in the Balkans. He didn’t think anyone could say either of those hadn’t been justified. But do one or two right acts make up for several wrong ones, especially when the wrong ones mean fighting unwinnable wars for years on end? That question nagged at him for the rest of the ride, but try as he might, he couldn’t come up with a suitable answer.

When he saw the night-shrouded coastline of Cuba break up the endless expanse of water, Jonas was unsure how he felt.

Seeing the place that had changed his life so many years ago—

and had just changed his life again earlier that evening, Jonas was surprised to find he didn’t feel sadness or anger or even nervous anticipation at returning. His mind was calm, evaluating and estimating possible plans of attack, options and escape routes, even though he didn’t have the full information needed. This was what it was all about, he thought, working on the fly, improvising when necessary—just like the last time.

JONAS FROZE for a second, then pulled back, making sure he was out of sight. The truck still burned brightly in the clearing, which was now devoid of any other living thing.

“Hey, you out there!” a voice shouted in Spanish. “We have your accomplice. Surrender, and she will live.”

A part of Jonas’s mind said he should withdraw, that the mission had been accomplished and that the girl was an acceptable casualty, especially when weighed against saving the rest of his team from an ambush. He didn’t give that idea a second thought.

Rolling left, he had worked about a quarter of the way around the clearing, and was in a position to see into the ruin of the sugar mill, where he figured the soldiers were holding Marisa. Rapid, high-pitched cursing, followed by a loud slap confirmed his suspicion.

“You have one minute to give yourself up. Otherwise she dies!” While the voice kept shouting, Jonas crawled closer, counting on the burning truck and the yelling man to cover any noise of his passing. Peeking out of the foliage again, he got enough of a view through the narrow window on the side of the tumbledown building, and saw shapes moving around inside. He knew he would have only one chance. He peered around for anyone nearby, but saw no movement.

The rest of the soldiers probably all took cover in the building, he thought. Grabbing the trunk of a palm tree, he pulled himself upright, then braced the rifle against it, wedging the stock into a piece of bark that had split from the trunk.

“Thirty seconds!” The voice sounded even more furious now, and Jonas’s other concern—besides trying to hit a mostly concealed target inside a building—was that the soldier would lose it and kill Marisa anyway. But he forced that thought from his mind and steadied his breathing, sucking in oxygen to try to restore his depleted muscles.