6
Climbing to the top of the sail wasn’t an easy task for someone his age, and this was the second time he had to go through that exercise. When Martin reached the top, he bent over trying to catch his breath. Vera, who was in better shape than he, smiled.
Martin wondered when she had the time to refresh and replace her clothes with the new shirt and the tight jeans she was wearing.
The sun was high in the sky. A few clouds were scattered across the heavens. The gentle breeze and the smell of the clear blue ocean helped him to regain his breath. To their front, black smoke ascended from the approaching ship.
Satarov held his binoculars high. “It’s a small warship. Really old, museum stuff.” His finger adjusted the main focus thumbscrew. “It must be a steam engine.”
Martin, still breathing heavily, rubbed his chin. “I don’t think any twenty-first century fleet still uses steamers. Even in 1938, steamers were considered obsolete.”
“Can you see the flag?” asked Vera.
Satarov stared for a long moment. “American,” he groaned.
Vera’s eyes glittered. “An old ship carrying an American flag?” she said in cheerful voice. “Maybe we were successful after all.” She looked at the captain, “Can we dive? We may want to avoid contact before confirming our time and place.”
Martin stared at the twisted metal which was once the ballast tanks, and he shook his head. Syntactic flotation foam protruded from various holes. Without that hardened foam, the upper deck would be under water.
“No, we cannot dive.” Satarov spoke in low tone, his binoculars still following the approaching vessel. “Our priority is to find a safe deep-water harbor and conduct repairs.”
“Ah.” Satarov adjusted the focus knob. “I can see it now. USS Jacob Jones, DD-130. Are you familiar with that class, Professor?”
“Sorry,” Martin shrugged.
“Maybe Steve knows.” Vera pulled out a small plastic walkie-talkie. “Hey, Steve, got a minute?”
After a moment of static, Steve’s voice came out of the device. “Sure … honey.” More static, then, “… anything for you, babe.”
Vera blushed. “Not now,” she whispered into the device. She smiled apologetically at Martin, and adjusted one of the buttons. Then she brought the walkie-talkie to her ear. “Can you search your database for the USS Jacob Jones?”
As the conversation continued, the smile on Vera’s face faded away. “Steve’s equipment is still packed inside the external container. He needs time to unpack.”
Satarov swore something incomprehensible.
“Judging from the name,” added Martin, “it’s a destroyer. The US Navy designated all its destroyers with the letters DD.”
“Will they open fire?” asked the captain.
Martin pointed at the red Soviet symbol. “Naval vessels don’t open fire at each other unless they are at war. In 1938, the United States wasn’t at war with the Soviet Union. They’ll investigate first.”
Vera moved her hand across her hair. “Perhaps we should go with the Jacob Jones to Florida? I’m sure we can find a proper shipyard there.” She put her hand on her radio. “I’m sure Eric would love to go back home and have a chat with President Roosevelt.”
“Over my dead body,” sneered Satarov. “I have not gone through all these troubles just so I could surrender to the Americans. That is, assuming we are still in the Caribbean.”
“So what would you suggest?” asked Vera. She faced Satarov. “Do you want to give the Typhoon to Stalin? He will take the ship and its missiles, and throw our sorry asses into a gulag.”
“There’s a point to Satarov’s argument.” Martin took his hands out of his pockets. “If this is indeed 1938, and we go to Florida, the US Navy may take possession of the submarine.”
“What should we do, then?”
Martin fixed his tweed jacket. He literally had no clue. “First we’ll need to verify where, and more importantly, when we are.” His mind raced. “If we’re still near the Bahamas, and the time is 1938, and repairs are a must, then I would suggest … Cuba.”
“Cuba?” asked Vera. “I don’t think Eric will like this. His plan was to take the submarine to the Arctic ice cap.”
“With this?” Martin pointed at the distorted ballast tanks and the tilted Typhoon.
“Cuba?” repeated the captain.
Martin nodded. “Havana has a deep-water port and easy access to the States. Furthermore, local authorities look favorably on bribery, which is perfect for us.”
The gloomy expression on Satarov’s face disappeared. “I have been to Cuba as a young cadet.” Satarov issued another command to his first officer, and then he looked back at the destroyer. “But first, we should find out what these guys want.”
“One more thing,” said Vera. “Eric asked me to remind you that as long as we assume it is 1938, we should pretend to be a Soviet submarine and not Russian.”
Caribbean Sea
March 1938
Captain Richard Patterson stood on the bridge of the USS Jacob Jones, his binoculars fixed on the horizon. His destroyer wasn’t the most modern vessel in the US arsenal. Regardless, he was proud to serve on it.
The USS Jacob Jones was built in 1919 at Camden shipyard, New Jersey. The 1090-ton Wickes-class destroyer, which was named after Commodore Jacob Jones, USN hero of the War of 1812, was on a tour of duty south of its home base in Norfolk, Virginia. Since 1933, it had served on various training and diplomatic missions in the Atlantic. For the past two months, the four-smokestack destroyer had been part of the navy’s Fleet Landing Exercises and battle maneuvers off Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands.
The USS Jacob Jones had been on its way for an overhaul in Norfolk, when Richard Patterson was called to the bridge.
“Captain, what do you think this is?” his lieutenant commander asked.
Captain Patterson didn’t take his eyes off the newly discovered vessel. “That’s one big … I don’t think it’s one of ours.”
“Do you suppose it’s a German U-boat, sir?”
“The Germans don’t have anything this size. Maybe it’s the French Surcouf.” The captain referred to the largest submarine in the world. “We shall soon find out. Change course to intercept, bearing zero nine zero. Take her slowly. Two knots.”
Patterson carefully examined the sub. It had a large, black sail above its flat, barren body. There were no external features, not even a fence or deck gun. A weird design. He laid down his binoculars and took up the intelligence ship recognition binder. He found the page containing a picture of the Surcouf and its two 8-inch guns. What he saw at sea wasn’t it. Nothing in the binder resembled the newly discovered submarine.
He inspected the submarine once more with his binoculars. He saw a few people on the top of its sail, and he swallowed. They were suspiciously tiny. He looked again, trying to estimate the submarine’s size. It was huge, far larger than the Surcouf’s 361 feet. By comparing the height of its crew members, that submarine must be nearly 600 feet long. It was as big as an aircraft carrier. That’s impossible. No navy has such a big sub in its arsenal.
“Radio Norfolk,” he told his lieutenant commander. “Inform headquarters we detected a new submarine, unknown configuration …”
The periscope started to blink. The massive submarine was sending Morse code. He tried to decipher the message. “… the Soviet vessel Dmitry Donskoy to the American approaching ship. Please state your intentions.”
“A Commie submarine in these waters?” Captain Patterson adjusted his cap and faced his lieutenant commander. “What are you waiting for? Report the sighting of a new class of extremely large Soviet submarine, at these coordinates.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied the young officer; he saluted and left to the radio room.
Patterson turned to the ensign who manned the destroyer’s spotlight. “Respond with following message, ‘This is the USS Jacob Jones, on a routine mission. You are close to US territorial waters. What are your intentions?’”
Two minutes later the mysterious submarine replied. “Our destination is Cuba. Our mission is to conduct a scientific experiment. We have no intention to violate American territorial waters. Requesting permission to come aboard.”
Patterson didn’t believe a word of what they said. He was certain that the Commies had something else in mind. They always had. According to normal procedure he should have waited for orders from Norfolk. But it would take navy headquarters hours to respond. As the most senior officer on the scene, he had the authority to initiate contact. He ordered the ensign to reply with one word. “Granted.”
A few minutes later, the destroyer came to a standstill alongside the Soviet submarine. The crew was on high alert. Patterson’s heartbeat accelerated. There was a moment of silence on the bridge as the American sailors stared at the unbelievable size of the monster that rose above them. In tonnage, it must have been forty or fifty times his ship’s displacement. Last year, during the commissioning ceremonies of the aircraft carrier USS Yorktown, he had felt just as small.
A tiny inflatable boat was lowered from the sub. Four of her crewmen headed his way. Only one of them wore a uniform.
The first officer came back from the radio room. “Any word from navy headquarters?” Patterson asked.
“The orders are to observe and report, Captain.”
“And so we shall. Now, let’s meet our guests, so we will have something to report about.”
The visitors reached the deck. Patterson almost dropped his binoculars when he saw an old fellow leaning on a walking stick. More surprising was the presence of a woman. No navy, not even his own, allowed women to serve.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain,” said the old man, extending his free hand for a shake. “Eric Sobol.” The old guy spoke in a flawless American accent.
Patterson struggled to grasp all these conflicting details.
“This charming lady,” added Eric, “is Vera Pulaski. The gentleman over here is Professor Martin Richter from New York. Our Russian friend is Captain Vladimir Satarov of the Russian Fed … Soviet Navy.”
“You’re Americans,” stated Patterson, as if refusing to believe it.
Eric smiled, and shook Patterson’s hand.
“Captain Richard Patterson, at your service.” He tried to follow usual courtesy. “What in hell are you doing on a Commie submarine?”
Eric laughed. “I’m sure you have plenty of questions, my friend. The short version is that we plan to, hmm … how shall I put it … to launch a rocket into space.”
Captain Patterson bit his lip. This fellow Eric was crazier than he thought. “A spaceship?” Who do these people think they are? “Like Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon?” He couldn’t resist staring at Professor Martin Richter, wondering what his response would have been if Eric had introduced him as Doctor Zarkov. Then he looked at Vera Pulaski, who wore queer-looking tight jeans and a bright shirt. She was attractive all right, but she didn’t look anything like Dale Arden or Princess Aura from the Flash Gordon comic.
Professor Richter nodded slightly. “It’s not really a spaceship. Not a manned one, that is. We plan to launch an unmanned spacecraft into an orbit around Earth. Something like an artificial moon. We call it—a satellite.”
“Sure you do,” mused Patterson.
“Captain,” Vera spoke in a sweet calm voice. “As you can see,” she pointed at the huge vessel outside, “this submarine is 575 feet long. No doubt, from its sheer size, you must recognize it as a technological marvel.”
Patterson stared at Vera, still finding it hard to believe that a woman could be a member of the naval delegation. He had assumed she was just a nurse who came to take care of the old man.
Vera paused for a moment, her eyes reflecting authority. “Look, Captain. All that we ask you to do is to report to your superiors about our plan to launch a rocket to space. We plan to do that from Cuba. As loyal American citizens, we would be glad to cooperate with the US government and the US press.”
Captain Patterson swallowed. “I definitely plan to report our conversation to my superiors.” He didn’t know if there was any truth to these peoples’ story; nevertheless, the submarine itself was impressive enough to give their claim serious consideration.
“Thank you, Captain.” Eric nodded. “I just want to reiterate my assistant’s phrasing. We would love to cooperate with the American government.” He patted Patterson’s shoulder. “After all, we’re all patriots, aren’t we?”
“If I may ask one more question?” said Patterson.
“What would you like to know?”
“Since when does the USSR have such huge submarines?”
Vera just looked at Captain Patterson with her large almond eyes. “We would like to keep something for the press conference.” She smiled. “Let’s just say that we aren’t short on funding.”
“Geri Bland?”
Geri turned and saw a young gentleman wearing a Russian Navy officer’s uniform—a black outfit with two rows of yellow buttons. With the exception of the visor hat, the uniform reminded her of the Royal Manticoran Navy costume she’d seen in countless sci-fi conventions.
She nodded.
“I am Lieutenant Boris Illariov,” he said in a charming Russian accent. “Captain Second Rank, Alexander Mokotoff, wants every off-duty person to assemble for briefing in mess hall.”
“I would be delighted.” Geri tried to straighten her shirt. “Will Steve be there?”
“Everyone.” Boris smiled. “I will be your translator.”
“Don’t we want to wait for Eric and Captain Satarov?”
“These are my orders.” The lieutenant shrugged.
Geri took a deep breath. She was going to see Steve while Vera was away. She didn’t know if she should be happy or scared. “Can you wait a second?” She rushed to her suitcase and spilled its entire contents on her bunk bed. Where the hell is it? She desperately hurled surge protectors, USB keys, extra cables, and her mini gigabit router. “There!” She found her red lipstick. “Let’s go,” she said as she started to apply it on her lips.
Steve, Jack, Darryl, and Dr. Lin already waited for them in the mess hall. More than a hundred crewmen managed to squeeze in. Even Fidel was there, accompanied by two Spetsnaz.
“Hi, Steve.” Geri was barely able to forgive herself for such a stupid pickup line.
“Yo, dude.” Steve waved at her. He still wore his dirty SpaceX T-shirt. It looked so sexy on his muscular shoulders. “Who’s your friend?”
It took Geri a few seconds to process Steve’s question. “Ah, that’s Lieutenant Boris Illariov, our translator.” She paused for a second, remembering Vera. “I mean … our interpreter.”
“Sweet.” Steve turned his head toward the stage.
The air was warm and stank with the odors of sweat, leftover food, and vomit. Evidently, the ventilation system was not yet fully operational. But Geri didn’t care. Not while she stood next to Steve.
“Too bad Vera isn’t here,” Steve muttered.
That comment stung like a wasp. It wounded her to see that Steve was still under Vera’s spell.
Alex climbed on the stage and raised his right hand. Everyone fell silent.
Geri followed him with her eyes. A red Soviet flag was attached to a stand beside the stage. Probably a movie prop from Eric’s conspiracy.
“A lot has happened since we’ve left Murmansk,” said Alex, his strong voice carrying across the hall and translated by Boris. “I’m well aware there are many unanswered questions.” He paused, and looked at the audience of anxious sailors. Some crewmen began whispering to each other.
Alex cleared his throat. “About half an hour ago we entered a wormhole.”
Some sailors began to shout.
Alex raised his voice, while keeping a calm poker face, but more crewmen yelled, asking additional questions. The most vocal was a short fellow who stood not far from Darryl, wearing the unmistakable yellow coverall of a nuclear reactor technician.
Geri adjusted her glasses as she moved uncomfortably. For some reason, Boris didn’t translate the latest exchange between the angry sailors and their captain second rank.
She feared she would find herself in the middle of a mutiny. She had no clue what Alex had told the mob, but she did notice two armed Spetsnaz climbing on the stage, standing beside Alex, magazines in their rifles. Six more blocked the mess hall’s two entrances. The two Spetsnaz who guarded Fidel cocked their weapons.
Shit! She took Steve’s hand and held it tightly. “If I say ‘duck,’ we both drop to the floor.”
He didn’t resist.
Eventually, the anger among the sailors subsided.
“I can’t explain the exact physics behind it,” Alex said, without even a trace of a flinch. “But it seems that the wormhole we went through was some kind of bridge or a rift in time.”
This time, no one protested.
“As some of you already know,” Alex continued, “the captain is now visiting an American destroyer. I spoke with him ten minutes ago. We now have one hundred percent confirmation that we have gone back in time.”
Geri could feel the increased tension. Most of the crew didn’t know about Eric and Satarov’s plans. She was certain many had left loved ones behind. People shifted nervously, all eyes fixed on Alex.
“Captain Satarov also verified the date. Today is …”
Boris choked. He looked at Geri. “It can’t be,” he mumbled. “The captain second rank said that the date now is March 11th, 1938.”
“Yes!” A big smile appeared on Steve’s face. He hugged Geri and gave her a kiss on her cheek. “We hit the jackpot!”
Geri was in heaven. At least until Steve let her go.
Conversations sprang up throughout the mess hall. Alex waited patiently for the excitement to calm down. He seemed to Geri like someone who knew when to keep tight discipline and when to allow his crew to release some steam. But she had no doubt that if push came to shove, Alex wouldn’t hesitate to order his Spetsnaz to shoot his own men.
“Why isn’t the captain here?” asked one sailor.
“That’s bullshit. No one can travel back in time.”
“Do we know how to get back home?” shouted another.
“I have a wife and two kids waiting for me. We must go home.”
“I’m supposed to retire in two months.”
“My mom is sick.”
“I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Attention!” ordered Alex, his voice booming through the speakers. The crew immediately jumped, as one man, to stand at attention. No one even dared to breathe. “You’re sailors in the service of the motherland. Behave as such!” Alex paused for a few seconds. “Now, does anyone here have a question?”
One of the crewmen, a cook, raised his hand. “1938? Isn’t that just before the Great Patriotic War?”
Geri recalled that World War II was called by Russians “the Great Patriotic War.”
“True,” said Alex. His eyes scanned the mess hall.
The nuclear technician stepped forward. “I nearly lost my entire family during that period.”
“Anatoly Leonov is right.” Alex’s gaze fell on the technician. “My grandfather was killed during the battle of Stalingrad.” He extended his hand to grab the red Soviet flag. “He died a glorious death like a hero of the Soviet Union. How many of you lost a family member during the Great Patriotic War?”
Most hands were raised.
“You don’t understand.” Anatoly spat on the floor. “You may be the grandson of a Stalingrad war hero. My grandfather died like a dog. He starved to death in a gulag. Your ‘glorious’ Stalin sent him there.”
Alex stared at Anatoly. He looked as if he was about to explode. “Maybe your grandfather was a criminal.” Alex’s eyes pierced Anatoly like two poisoned daggers.
Anatoly didn’t respond.
“Mother Russia lost twenty-five million sons and daughters.” Alex shifted his attention to the rest of the crew. “More than sixty million people perished in the Great Patriotic War.”
Many people nodded.
“And I’m not counting unborn children, the devastation to our economy, and the crimes committed by the hands of the fascists.”
“Stalin was no better.” There was nothing but dead silence when Anatoly challenged Alex for the third time. Most men just stood still. Some shifted their weight uncomfortably.
The two Spetsnaz who stood next to Alex stiffened, tightening their grip on their weapons.
Alex signaled them to calm down. He raised his head and spoke in a clear enthusiastic voice. “We can change history,” he said, ignoring Anatoly. “Imagine how the war would have turned out if the motherland had had a few nukes? Imagine how history would now look if we could have been there for our country in her darkest hour?”
Alex paused, scanning the hall, as if trying to establish eye contact with each member of his crew. “Are you with me?”
Initially no one said a word.
“Ya Spetsnaz,” ten men cried in unison. “No one will ever defeat us.”
The rest of the crew, nearly a hundred sailors, looked at the motivated Spetsnaz, then at each other.
“Who thinks we should defend mother Russia?” Alex cheered, waving the Soviet flag above his head.
“Me,” more than one crewman responded.
“Are you with me?” Alex shouted again.
“Da!” boomed throughout the hall.
“Will you stand behind your captain?”
“We will!” roared the crowd.
“Will you support mother Russia?”
“With all our hearts!” the crew yelled.
Anatoly raised his hand. “Will we ever see home again?”
Alex gave the flag to one of the Spetsnaz. He stepped off the stage, walked toward Anatoly, and put his hand on the technician’s shoulder. “To be honest with you, Anatoly, I don’t know. If the opportunity comes, we will. Until then, we’ll do our best to be good sons to mother Russia.”
“Stalin was no better than Hitler,” sneered Anatoly, “My grandfather was no criminal. He was a loyal communist and Red Army officer. He was sent to the gulag in 1937, during the great Stalin purges. We shouldn’t work for that mass murderer.”
Geri overheard Fidel whispering to Darryl, “This Anatoly hombre is no happy.”
“So it seems,” Darryl whispered back. “Perhaps we should talk to him.”
Geri wondered how Fidel knew Darryl. However, her train of thought was broken when Alex spoke again. “We will stop the war and save many innocent people. But first, we’ll need to repair this boat.”
Some of the crew nodded in agreement.
“Repair the submarine? Where?” asked Anatoly.
All eyes focused on the captain second rank.
A big smile spread across Alex’s face; he jumped back on the stage. “Think gorgeous girls, the best-looking babes on the planet,” he said, making a curve gesture. “Imagine sunny beaches, white sands, blue seas, pineapples, great cigars, and did I mention hot girls?”
“CUBA, hola Cuba!” cheered the crew.
Darryl laughed out loud beside Geri. “J.F. Kennedy would turn in his grave had he known that a Soviet boomer was coming to Cuba … with a guy named Fidel on board.”
Martin and Eric bade farewell to Captain Richard Patterson and his crew. The engine barked and the Zodiac started to move, slashing the serene waves. A breeze from the clear ocean water lifted Martin’s spirit, reminding him of his last Mexico vacation.
When they reached the submarine, two sailors lowered a rope to help Eric climb on board. Martin and Vera tied it to his waist. They remained to assist. Captain Satarov rushed up and disappeared into the sail.
“Thank you,” Eric sighed, once they were safe and sound on the deck.
“Don’t mention it.” Martin smiled. You have to admire the old man’s determination. He is injured and mortally ill, yet he insisted on coming with them to the Jacob Jones.
A humming noise came from the diesel engine. Martin felt vibrations beneath his feet. The Typhoon slowly turned south, leaving behind a trail of small waves. Someone must be in a hurry.
The American destroyer didn’t waste any time either. Its funnel belched a cloud of black smoke, as its engines gave a loud rumble in an effort to produce maximum momentum.
“Let’s go,” said Eric, tapping on Martin’s shoulder. “We have a meeting, and I don’t want to be late.”
“A meeting?”
“All these nice farewells and smiling faces,” said Eric, “back on the Jacob Jones …”
“What about it?”
“It’s just an appearance, a fake, a trap.”
Martin froze for a second. A trap? He didn’t get it. Then again, he was a university professor and not a cold billionaire with the business sense to smell a setup. Not even if it hit him in the face.
“Didn’t you see Captain Patterson’s face when he got that memo?” Eric shook his head. “Never mind, I’ll explain later. Now, come.”
Martin, Vera, and Eric joined Captain Satarov. Vera translated the sign at the room’s entrance. It said “Briefing Room.” Geri Bland already waited for them inside. She stared at her laptop, too busy to acknowledge their arrival.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” said Eric.
The room had a massive dark table, surrounded by eight black seats. The walls were covered by large maps of the Arctic and West Atlantic. The dim red light and the reddish shadows added to the gloomy atmosphere. I wish they could have fixed the reactors. Why is it taking so long? Martin thought.
Eric rested his cane next to the table, and chose a chair. He cleared his throat, nodding toward Martin and Geri. “Martin, I want you to help Geri with her military conflict prediction software.”
Martin settled down in his chair and looked at Eric in puzzlement. Then he switched his gaze to Satarov. The Russian captain nervously tapped his fingers on the wooden table, and the wrinkles on his forehead grew deeper.
“Comrades,” Satarov said, “I’m a bit worried about our American ‘friends.’ We are vulnerable, and we present an extremely valuable prize for any 1938 navy. How can we be sure that the Americans won’t take control of the Dmitry Donskoy by force?”
Martin raised his eyebrows. He looked at the faces of Eric, Vera, and Geri.
“I ordered to raise the alert level to orange.”
Eric remained silent.
Martin was concerned what the alert situation meant. Did it mean Satarov was ready to launch torpedoes on the American Navy? Launch a nuclear strike on US soil? What the hell is “orange”? He swallowed.
The captain released a deep breath. “The US Navy controls these waters.” He shifted his gaze from Eric to Martin. “That destroyer won’t just go away, and I expect more war vessels will soon reinforce it. I fear Washington might not resist the temptation of getting their hands on our technology.”
Geri coughed. She stood up, eyes still focused on her laptop. She shook her head. “Not according to my simulations.” She turned the monitor, and showed Martin and Satarov a series of graphs and diagrams. “I ran a few Cuban scenarios. The best course of action is to let the American public know that we are American citizens involved in a scientific experiment, and that we intend to share our knowledge with the American people. There is a ninety-three percent likelihood that the US Navy will be ordered to stand down. I mean, why risk a conflict, if you can get what you want without a gamble?”
“What if they try to intercept us in international waters before the public knows about it?” asked Satarov.
“Not a chance!” snapped Geri. She adjusted her glasses and pointed her index finger at one of the mysterious colored diagrams. “See?”
Martin scratched the back of his head.
“The US Navy knows nothing of our strength,” explained Geri. “From an HQ point of view, sending a thousand-ton destroyer against us is like sending a clipper to capture a dreadnought. Even if they learn that we’re crippled and decide to launch the entire Atlantic fleet against us, it will take time.”
“How much time?” Martin asked.
“In 1938,” Geri added, “there was no war between the US and the USSR.” Her fingers quickly worked on her laptop. “Before attacking a Soviet vessel, the Pentagon would need the White House’s approval. That would take thirty-six to forty-eight hours of discussions. By the time the US fleet gets the order to capture us in international waters, we’ll be drinking rum in Havana.”
“Right.” Martin smiled. “By the time the USN gets the order to operate in Cuba, we’ll have our press release. By the way,” he told Geri, “you have made one small mistake in your presentation. You meant the War Department. The Pentagon didn’t exist prior to 1943.”
Geri moved her hand across her red hair. “Oops, a glitch, sorry,” she retorted. “Let me re-run the numbers …”
“Regardless,” said Eric, “I see no other course of action but to go forward, full speed, to Cuba.”