“This’s the experimental part. It’s now set to normal operations mode. Push this down one click and she’ll be invisible to radar. It also scrambles the electronic communications with MacDill, so your signal can’t be picked up by the enemy.”
“What’s the third mode?” she asked, pointing to the switch.
“In an emergency, if you need to go totally radio silent, push it down again to here.” He snapped the switch down two clicks. “That kills all onboard external communications. The electronic footprints completely disappear to anyone on the ground, including base.”
“She goes full black?”
“Full black,” he said with a smile.
“How does that work on a helicopter?”
“Above my grade, ma’am.” He shook his head.
Jessica put the headset on and oriented herself around the cockpit. Yes, I can do this, she thought, nodding to herself.
The airman started to leave when she grabbed his arm. “Lieutenant, where are the controls for enabling the remote pilot?”
“Right here, ma’am.” He tapped a box underneath the pilot’s seat, with its purple wire that ran into the floor. “When this is on,” he said, touching a flashing purple light next to the analog altimeter, “MacDill is your copilot. Just as if they were sitting right here next to you. Make sure this light stays on or you’re flying on your own.”
Jessica nodded. “Lieutenant, I’ve got five cases in my vehicle, four in the trunk, one up front. Can you load them into the Raider while I run prestart?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he saluted and marched off.
Once the airman was out of earshot, Jessica tapped a button on the ear of her headset. “This is Alpha Nine Nine. Can you hear me?”
“Roger, Alpha Nine Nine. Good evening. This is Whiskey Base Seven. Are you ready for prestart checks?”
“Affirmative, Whiskey Base Seven. Have you locked in our destination coordinates?”
“Doing that now.”
“What’s our flight time?”
“One hour forty-two minutes to Gitmo, Alpha Nine Nine.”
Perfect. “Let’s go, Whiskey.”
72.
SANTIAGO, CUBA
FRIDAY, 11:31 P.M.
The Dassault Falcon 7X landed, its wheels squeaking sharply on the airstrip as it touched down. Ernesto Sandoval’s heart raced as he felt the jolt of the land, his arrival back in Cuba. He could almost hear the crowds already: Che! Che! Che!
The masses, unable to contain their love and admiration. Just like Pope Francis in Revolution Square.
The plane taxied for a few minutes, Ernesto’s nose pressed against the window for his first glance of home, his first sight of his people.
The pilot rolled the Falcon away from the main terminal and parked at the far end of the tarmac near an empty cargo hangar. The engines shut down and the door opened with a satisfying pop.
Ernesto poked his head out of the door.
“Welcome home, Dr. Che!” said an elderly woman surrounded by half a dozen shabbily dressed middle-aged men.
“Where is everybody?” Ernesto asked, frowning.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Che,” the woman said, forcing a smile, “you arrived too late for a welcoming party. The cells will be activated in the morning.”
“Cells?”
“The crowds will come tomorrow, Dr. Che.”
“Tomorrow?” Ernesto knew he should hide his disappointment, but he couldn’t help himself.
“For the bread rally,” she said.
“Bread?”
“Our Cubita bella is running out of wheat. There is no bread. The government has failed us again.” She tisked. “Mass protests are planned for tomorrow. In the Plaza de la Revolución. That’s when the crowds will come. That’s when the people will hear you, Dr. Che. That’s when we will begin a new chapter for Cuba!”
“I was expecting a crowd here. Tonight.”
“Tomorrow, Dr. Che. Tomorrow is your day!”
73.
GUANTáNAMO BAY NAVAL BASE, CUBA
FRIDAY, 11:36 P.M.
Alpha Nine Nine, prepare for final approach to Leeward Point,” said the voice in Jessica’s headset.
“Preparing for approach, Whiskey Base Seven,” Jessica replied, seizing the cyclic control stick with one hand and the collective with the other. She spied the red lights of the airstrip dead ahead and, at its very end, the green circle of the helicopter-landing pad. Beyond the airfield, she could see the brightly illuminated fence line that separated Guantánamo Bay Naval Base from the mainland. The official border between Cuba and America.
“I have a visual of the helipad, Whiskey,” she said. “I have the controls.”
As the Raider crossed into official American military airspace, the copilot announced, “Negative, Alpha Nine Nine. We’ve got you. We’re putting you in a ten-foot hover.”
“Roger that, Whiskey,” she conceded.