by C J Schnier
I waited a few moments, making sure the soldiers were focused on each other instead of me, and then slowly, almost imperceptibly, I shifted myself into position. The rusty edge was too high, and I couldn't quite get my hands where I needed them. I shifted my weight, half stood, and then swept my legs under me into an awkward sitting position. This elevated my hands a couple of inches, putting them right at the height I needed them to be.
All three men looked at me, regarded my movements for a handful of heartbeats, and then, satisfied that I had only shifted into a different and more comfortable position, went back to their conversation. Wasting no time, I worked my hands against the ragged, rusty edge of metal, feeling it tug and scrape at my bindings.
Small bits of rust broke off and rained down on the steel seat as I moved my hands back and forth. However, the constant noise from the truck and the increasingly jubilant chatter of the men covered up the faint sounds of falling rust. I worked slowly and methodically when the truck ran over smooth sections of the road, but when the truck would lurch and sway in the rougher tracts, I allowed the natural movement of my body to put more force into my efforts to free myself.
I could feel the zip tie weakening as I sawed through it. Sweat poured from my brow. Whether it was from the heat or my own nerves, I couldn't be sure, and I wiped it away as best I could with my shoulder.
Suddenly the truck shuttered to a stop, slamming me backwards against the cab and providing enough force to break free from the plastic zip tie. Two of the soldiers shouted something and stuck their heads out of the open back of the truck. A voice from outside, sounding apologetic, answered. Carefully, while the people outside distracted my captors, I worked my hands free. I clenched the broken zip tie in one hand, making sure not to leave any evidence of my newfound freedom.
Another few exchanges of words followed, and the wheels squealed as the truck started moving again. All three guards threw their hands up and shook their heads in frustration before taking their seats again. I couldn't understand them, but some things are universal in all languages.
From my limited viewpoint, I saw two men standing on the side of the road with shovels. Both of them looking like scolded children as we pulled away. They moved back into the road and went back to work, shoveling dirt from the middle to the sides. Before they had even faded from view, I could see the first of the village houses.
I held my breath, hoping this wasn't our ultimate destination. Several other shacks passed by, and the truck took a left turn, passing a few more houses. I recognized several of the homes and knew where we were. The procession was heading straight towards the hotel, but the trucks never slowed. We rumbled past the large white building, leaving it to our right, and then down another road. It was little more than an overgrown footpath. Branches scraped and tore at the sides of the truck. It was no wonder I had missed it in my previous reconnaissance of the village.
Part of me relaxed. I still had some time to orchestrate an escape. But how much time? This was all unfamiliar territory for me. This new road might continue straight to Havana, or it may end a half mile from now. There was no way for me to know. If I was going to make a break for it, it would have to be soon.
With my hands free, the next logical goal was getting out of the back of the truck. Of course, avoiding the platoon of soldiers that would follow would make the task more difficult. Avoiding catching a bullet as I ran away was pretty high on my priority list, too. I looked over the dark canvas covering the back of the truck.
Bits of the cloth flapped and fluttered in the breeze as the truck drove, but it all looked to be secured to its framework. I had to either find a way through the canvas or I'd have to somehow get past the three men guarding me and out the back. Given my recent record with fighting, that was my absolute last option. The next time the truck jostled, I let myself fall against the canvas, hoping it was as dilapidated as the truck it covered.
The cloth was stiff and almost slick to the touch. I put some more pressure against it. It barely moved. Despite the rust, the smoke, and the cacophony of creaks and groans spewing from the ancient vehicle, the military had apparently outfitted it with a new canopy. Without a knife, there was no way I was getting through it. And even then, I was certain my captors would be on me before I could cut a hole big enough to make my escape.
While I turned my brain over trying to figure out my escape, I looked out of the opening in the back less than ten feet away. All I could focus on was how close I was to escaping, and how hard that singular task was going to be. All the while, the truck continued on, bouncing down the road. But I realized we weren't going down at all. We were going up.
The jungle was dense, but now the foliage appeared to drop away on one side. Blue patches of sky and then the darker azure water of the sea peeked through the holes in the trees. We were along the side of a mountain near the coast. The truck wasn't climbing fast, but we were steadily gaining altitude.
I might be able to use that to my advantage. The first wisps of a plan began to form. While I let the plan coagulate, I settled back into my corner and watched the men some more. Every few minutes one of them would look over at me, and then go back to chatting, paying me no mind. With proper timing, and a lot of luck, I thought it might be possible to catch them off guard and dive past them. I could find no other options available to me. Waiting to see what General Bardales had in store was off the table. I had to act, and soon.
I readied myself the best I could, coiling every muscle for one quick leap. If I cleared the men, I'd tuck into a roll as I hit the dirt track, hopefully not breaking any bones. From there it was a quick sprint over to the steep hillside and then down the drop-off. The initial confusion would buy me a head start. Once in the jungle and moving down the mountainside, it would be hard for the men to follow. Their gear and weapons would encumber them, giving me a significant speed advantage.
I didn't bother planning anything else. Escape was where my plan stopped. Once I lost the military, I had no clue what to do. Cubans fled the country for Florida all the time. Surely I could find some way to sneak off the island. Regardless, that was a problem for another time. I had to get away first.
I ran through the plan repeatedly, visualizing it, willing it to happen. But my mind kept coming back to one issue. Jaye Mercury. Getting myself out of this situation would be tough enough. My entire plan hinged on the element of surprise. There was no way I could rescue her as well. "She is one tough lady," I reassured myself. "she can take care of herself." It sounded false. But it was still true. She was on her own, just like I was.
This wasn't my best plan ever, but as the saying goes, desperate times and all that. I moved my right foot, bracing it against the cab of the truck, using it like a running block that high-level sprinters used in the Olympics. I kept my arms behind me, maintaining the illusion that I remained fettered as I focused on the men, waiting for my opportunity.
That opportunity came seconds later. The man closest to me gave me his cursory glance, and I counted down from ten in my head. 10... 9... 8... I could feel my heartbeat pounding violently against my chest. 7... 6... 5... 4... Slowly, I crouched, giving my already coiled muscles a little more explosive power. I said a silent prayer to avoid any sudden lurches that would throw me off balance. One little jostle and my half-cocked plan would be derailed before it got started. 3... 2... 1... Now!
Pushing against the back of the truck cab with all the might my battered body and legs could muster, I launched myself forward. As my weight went to my left foot, I threw my arms forward, creating more forward momentum and readying them for my dive. My right foot came down, now only inches from the unsuspecting troops. My knee bent, and then when I felt I had maximum stored energy, I uncoiled my muscles and leapt headfirst through the small opening in the back of the truck.
As planned, I rolled as I hit the unforgiving ground, pulling my arms up to protect my head. The truck was moving at a faster pace than I had expected, and for the shortest of seconds I
thought about how much this stunt was going to hurt once the adrenaline wore off. Still, I found myself miraculously on my feet, having executed the roll with the ease of a Hollywood stuntman.
Risking a look over my shoulder, I could see the men reacting to my escape. I cut to my right, pumping my arms, willing myself to move faster until I pulled up short at the edge of the road where the hillside dove fifty feet at an impossibly steep angle. The first shout rang out behind me, but I didn't bother to look for its source. I've gotten this far, I thought. Might as well push my luck a little farther.
Feet first, I half jumped, half fell off the ridge. My butt contacted the hillside first, reminding me there were rocks under the leaves and decaying plant matter. The ground at the bottom of the hill rushed up to meet me as I slid the last thirty feet down the hill. Landing on my feet, I took off running again. There were more shouts now, and I could hear commands being thrown about by several people as I sprinted to put as much distance between them and me as possible.
I was less than fifty yards through the brush when the first burst of automatic rifle fire rang out. Limbs and trees shook and splintered around me, but I kept running down the hill, focused on avoiding branches and vines, sidestepping anything that could slow me down.
There was no way for me to know if the soldiers were already following me. I assumed they were. I knew the terrain would slow them, but I had no clue how much of a head start I had, so I plowed onward, making swift progress in the dense growth.
That progress came to a crashing halt seconds later. The thick copse of trees ended, and all that stood out in front of me was empty space. I slid to a stop, nearly toppling over the edge. Another fucking cliff!
Fifty feet down, waves crashed against the cliff and half submerged boulders, sending towers of spray nearly as high as the ledge I found myself on. I backed away, looking up and down the edge for any sort of escape. This time there was no zipline. Worse, I was in some sort of depression. Vertical cliffs book-ended the ledge I stood on. Running down the ridge to escape wasn't an option, and neither was going back. That left one direction. Forward.
I backed up a few more feet. I was going to need a running start to clear as many of those underwater boulders as possible. From behind me, I could hear the crashing of the soldiers over my own labored breathing. I was out of time.
"Chase Hawkins!" Bardales' powerful voice boomed, echoing off the trees and stone. "There is nowhere for you to go. Surrender now, or a Cuban prison will look like a resort compared to where I send you!"
I took one deep breath and yelled back. "Eat shit and die, Bardales!" I took a handful of running steps and launched myself off the cliff.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The water hit me like a sledgehammer, nearly forcing the air from my lungs. I shot straight down into indescribably clear blue water, my momentum slowing rapidly until finally coming to a stop at a depth of around twenty-five or thirty feet. A couple of quick but efficient kicks to propel me farther down were all I needed to reach a point of negative buoyancy and begin free-falling. The point where the pressure was enough to compress the remaining air stored in my lungs, causing me to sink instead of float.
I let gravity do its job and pull me down. Knowing that every muscle movement uses up precious oxygen, I placed my arms at my side, looked straight ahead instead of up, or down in this case, and put my legs together to streamline myself as much as possible. My clothes offered more resistance than the skin diving and streamlined wetsuits I typically wore when free diving but, despite the drag they caused, I still descended rapidly.
I had to work constantly to equalize the pressure in my ears, and without a mask I had no way to clearly see my surroundings. I hit the pebble and sand bottom in what I assumed was around a hundred feet of water. At this depth they wouldn't be able to spot me from above, but I also couldn't hold my breath forever. My plan to escape Bardales had been reckless, and it forced me to make up the rest of it on the fly.
Orienting myself right side up again, I let the cold water swirl around me. Several shapes darted and moved in the water. It was obvious they were fish of some sort, though I couldn't make out the species. Their presence somehow brought a sense of reassurance and calm I desperately needed.
I went through the beginning of the familiar and involuntary diaphragm spasms. Ignoring these was one of the major keys to deep diving. It was a meditative, if uncomfortable, practice.
Thoughts and options raced through my mind. I needed more information. My blurred vision underwater was hindering the choices I could make. I could tell visibility in this nearly unspoiled sea was good, but without a mask I couldn't make out any details. I needed a place to hide.
Bardales' troops would have reached the ledge by now. If I swam straight up, they would pick me off with their rifles. Heading out to sea was a fool's errand. It would tire me out, and I had to return to land, eventually. The only option I could see was trying to surface as close to the cliff face as possible, where, with any luck, the waves would have carved out a small section at the bottom to obscure me from view. After, I would have to figure which way to go to find a beach and hope the waves didn't bash me up against the cliff.
My need to breathe was what finally spurred me into action. There was no way for me to know how long I had been down, but I had spent enough time underwater to know I needed to surface soon. If I waited too long, I would suffer a blackout, and with nobody else here to rescue me, it would prove just as fatal as being seen by Bardales' troops.
I pushed off the bottom, angling myself up and towards the cliff. The angle would slow my ascent, but my goal was to surface as close to the base of the cliff as possible. Using slow, measured strokes, I made my way to the surface. The solid wall of rock which formed the cliff came slowly into view and grew more impressive with each stroke. Soon the darkness of the deeper water faded and I could see the shimmering light refracting on the surface, broken only by the shadow of the cliff itself a dozen feet away.
Water is deceptive, however; what looks like a few feet is often far more, or far less. Half a dozen swim strokes later and the surface looked just as far as it had thirty seconds ago. Was I moving? Without clear landmarks, it was hard to tell. I attempted to keep my thoughts and emotions under control, but a single stray moment of panic wiggled free from my emotional net.
What if I don't make it? The thought burst to the forefront of my mind and I had to wrestle it back as the desire to breathe grew ever stronger. I had to make it. Another look up and the surface still looked as far away as it had. But something else cut through the raging thoughts of doubt. Something about the water had changed.
I could feel myself being pulled in one direction, released, and then pushed in the opposite. Wave action, I realized. I had to be close to the surface. Two strokes later my head slipped above the water and I took my first breath of air in several minutes, fully expecting a bullet to rip through me as I did so. I remembered my dive training and took small shallow breaths at first, resisting the urge to gasp and gulp at the life giving gas.
Much to my relief, no gunshots or shouts rang out. I swayed and surged in the small surf, thankful this part of the island was mostly protected from the wind. If the waves had been any bigger, they surely would have dashed me against the rocks.
The cliff loomed above me, intimidating and uncaring. As I had hoped, the waves had carved out a small indent in the wall at the waterline, and I swam into it, bracing myself against the rock with each incoming wave.
I guess I can add cliff diver to my resume, I thought to myself with a silent, relieved chuckle. I had gotten lucky. Very lucky.
The rocks I had seen from above and the boulders at the bottom had been scattered sporadically. If I had jumped farther down the ridgeline, I would have had a more unfortunate experience. The cliff and the hill curved back in on itself, and a section of it had broken and crumbled away. Water foamed and hissed as it broke over half submerged rocks, creating a large patch of white, heavin
g foam on an otherwise blue expanse.
The coast in the other direction looked more promising. Half a mile away I could see the cliff give way to a hill that sloped downward towards the sea. If I was going to find a way out of the water, it was going to be over there. Staying under the carved out cliff face as much as possible, I took off hoping for some sort of beach.
My progress was slow. The constant surge of the waves tugged and pulled at me, slowing me down and sapping me of energy. With the immediate danger over, my adrenaline was crashing. I could feel my arms getting heavier with each stroke and I knew I was in for a very long swim. I also knew Bardales would probably send the patrol boat after me.
Sheer cliff slowly gave way to a gray rocky shore as the hillside gradually dipped down. Every couple of minutes I would pause and scan ahead and behind. I was looking for a place to come ashore, but the shore remained rugged and impossible to climb in these waves. Behind me, the hillside remained empty of soldiers and no patrol boat on the water. I continued my swim, one painstaking stroke after another, until it was time to look up again.
◆◆◆
"No, no, no," I cried as the pointed bow of a boat poked out from behind a bend in the shoreline ahead of me. I held my breath, hoping that it was a fishing barca, or a pleasure boat. But that thought died when I saw the enormous gun mounted on the bow. Damnit! Was that the same patrol boat? Had they circled around and gotten ahead of me? Or was it another one entirely? I had no way to know.
Desperately I looked at the shore. Constant spray and foaming water crashed high into the air as waves broke against sharp rocks. It had been over an hour since I had dived off the cliff, and the winds were starting to change. What had begun as small manageable waves had swollen and grown larger.
The spray and foam formed a nearly unbroken barrier between me and the shore. Except one small spot. A break in the wall of rocks, less than thirty feet wide, opened to a small pebble beach that retreated from the sea, fading into sparse grass and eventually thick vegetation.
