"Fine. Here's your entry form."
"I know many military secrets of value."
"Fill it out in triplicate, please."
"I have knowledge that would bring down the Havana government, if properly applied."
"Turn it in to the man in white."
"But-"
The bored immigration man moved on. Then, as if understanding for the first time, he stepped back. He looked Zorilla in the eye for the first time, and Zorilla thought, He is slow-witted. He understands now.
"Almost forgot. Here's your pencil."
Stunned into wordlessness, Zorilla accepted the yellow stub of a pencil. His tongue thick in his gaping mouth, he filled out the form. In triplicate.
With the others, he was taken to the Immigration Service's Krome Avenue Detention Center to be processed. There he was given blue coveralls and more forms to fill out.
For two months Leopoldo Zorilla told his story to any who would listen, and waited for a higher U.S. official to come and take charge of him. He had heard whispers of Cuban pilots who received handsome stipends in return for defecting. He had spit on the memory of those traitors in days gone by. Now, all he cared about was getting his very own stipend.
But there were no stipends for Leopoldo Zorilla. Nor did any high-ranking U.S. official show up to take charge of his case.
Instead, after the obligatory two-month cooling-off period had passed, he and those with whom he had shared a Spartan barracks existence were summoned to a room and given green cards.
"What is this 'green card'?" he asked. "Residency permit. You can get work."
"I do not wish to work. I wish to reveal the secrets of Cuba military machine," Zorilla protested.
"Not interested."
"But I have been told of the vast sums my junior officers have received for flying their MIGs into this country."
"You got a MIG on you?" the processor asked.
"No . . ." Zorilla admitted.
He pointed. "Get your clothes and wait in one of those vans."
Dejectedly, Zorilla did as he was told. These men were dolts! As bad as the functionaries in Havana, who would refuse to change a light-bulb if it were not their assigned task to do so.
Leopoldo Zorilla hitched a ride to Washington and attempted to interest the CIA, the FBI, and the Pentagon in what he knew.
He was rebuffed at each institution. With the exception of the Pentagon, which offered him a janitorial job at $5.40 an hour.
Depressed and defeated, Zorilla had returned to Florida and an unknowable future.
It was not so bad. The Cuban community had virtually taken over Miami. The mayor was Cuban. A senator was Hispanic. It was, Zorilla thought, like Havana would have been if that bearded monster had not thrown a monkey wrench into the clock of time itself.
He got a job in a restaurant, and although the work was menial and hurt his pride, Zorilla was told that he was in the land of opportunity and good fortune was sure to come his way.
It did. One day a man named Drake walked into the restaurant and offered him more than just a job.
"I understand you know some things about current Cuban defenses," he said in a smooth, low voice.
"This is true. Why do you ask?"
"The Director would like to speak with you."
And it had been just as his fellow Cuban-Americans had promised. Leopoldo Zorilla laid down his busboy's plastic tray and became a leader of men once more. A soldier of the Americas.
That had been a year ago. A good time. A new beginning.
But now, it had all been dashed to pieces.
As the last bitter tear slid down a track on his face to leave a dried, tight, saline line, Comandante Leopoldo Zorilla vowed to make the person responsible pay: The despised Fidel Castro.
The mission would go on.
He pressed his heavy booted foot to the accelerator and, like a robot, held the snaketrack road.
Behind, the shame of his life lay in slow-drying pools of blood.
Ahead, lay his manly destiny.
As he rushed through the Florida night, Leopoldo Zorilla vowed to himself that he would build a monument to the fallen of this terrible night, of the purest granite he could find.
He could do no less. For he knew personally the mothers of many of the glorious dead.
Captain Ernest Maus slipped his magnetic passcard into the slot and entered the quietly humming control room after the door had slid upward.
The humming came from the banks of computers and control consoles. It made the room sound cool. In fact, the temperature hovered around ninety-five degrees. He began to sweat profusely as he walked past the guards in their immaculate white jumpsuits.
He stopped where an old man sat hunched over a computer terminal. The old man was using a mouse to draw a fox in glowing red lines. His hair, visible over the chair back, was the color of snow.
"Director?"
"What is it, Maus?" the Director asked in a chilly voice.
"Dr. Revuelta called the emergency contact number, and left a cryptic message on the machine. Do you authorize contacting him directly?"
The Director used the mouse to make the fox stand up. He gave the fox a Marilyn Monroe face, large breasts, and a wealth of bushy pubic hair.
"Director?"
"Why is it so cold in here?" the Director asked peevishly. clicking the mouse. The fox-girl began to revolve, swaying its generous hips like a hula dancer.