Cuba

by Stephen Coonts

Ocho dragged as many people under it as he could, then lay exhausted on the board deck in the shade, his tongue a swollen, heavy, rough thing in his dry mouth.

  Sweating. He was going to have to stop sweating like this, stop wasting his bodily fluids. Stop this exertion.

  Nearby a child cried. She would stop soon, he thought, too thirsty to waste energy crying.

  He sat up, looked for Dora. She was sitting in the shade with her back against the wheelhouse. Her father, Diego Coca, lay on the deck beside her, his head in her lap. She looked at Ocho, then averted her gaze.

  “What should I have done?” he asked.

  She couldn’t have heard him.

  He got up, went over to where she was. “What should I have done?”

  She said nothing, merely lowered her head. She was stroking her father’s hair. His eyes were closed, he seemed oblivious to his surroundings and the corkscrewing motion of the drifting boat. His body moved slackly as the boat rose and fell.

  Ocho Sedano went into the wheelhouse. Above the captain’s swollen corpse the helm wheel kicked back and forth in rhythm to the pounding of the sea.

  Ocho held his breath, turned the body over, went through the pockets. A few pesos, a letter, a home-made pocketknife, a worn, rusty bolt, a stub of a pencil, a button … not much to show for a lifetime of work.

  Already the body was swelling in the heat. The face was dark and mottled.

  He dragged the captain’s stiff body from the wheelhouse, got it to the rail and hooked one of the arms across the railing. Then he lifted the feet.

  The dead man was very heavy.

  Grunting, working alone since none of his audience lifted a hand to help, Ocho heaved the weight up onto the rail and balanced it there as the boat rolled. Timing the roll, he released the body and it fell into the sea.

  The corpse floated beside the boat face up. The lifeless eyes seemed to follow Ocho.

  He tore himself away, finally, and watched the top of the mast make circles against the gray-white clouds and patchy blue.

  When he looked again at the water the captain’s corpse was still there, still face up. The sea water made a fan of his long hair, swirled it back and forth as if it were waving in a breeze. Water flowed into and out of his open mouth as the corpse bobbed up and down.

  The long nights, the sun, heat, and exhaustion caught up with Ocho Sedano and he could no longer remain upright. He lowered himself to the deck, wedged his body against the railing, and slept.

  “That freighter that left Gitmo last week, the one carrying the warheads?”

  “I remember,” Toad Tarkington said. “The Colón, or something like that.”

  “Nuestra Señora de Colón. She never made it to Norfolk.”

  “What?” Toad stared at the admiral, who was holding the classified message.

  “She never arrived. Atlantic Fleet HQ is looking for her right now.”

  Toad took the message, scanned it, then handed it back.

  “We sent a destroyer with that ship,” the admiral said. “Call the captain, find out everything you can. I want to know when he last saw that ship and where she was.”

  In minutes Toad had the CO on the secure voice circuit. “We went up through the Windward and Mayaguanan passages,” Toad was told. “They were creeping along at three knots, but they got their engineering plant rolling again and worked up to twelve knots, so we left her a hundred miles north of San Salvador, heading north.” The captain gave the date and time.

  “The Colón never arrived in Norfolk,” Toad said.

  “I’ll be damned! Lost with all hands?”

  “I doubt that very much,” Toad replied.

  Toad got on the encrypted voice circuit, telling the computer technicians in Maryland what he wanted. Soon the computers began chattering. Rivers of digital, encrypted data from the National Security Agency’s mainframe computers at Fort Meade, Maryland, were bounced off a satellite and routed into the computers aboard United States.

  On the screens before him he began seeing pictures, radar images from satellites in space looking down onto the earth. The blips that were the Colón and her escorting destroyer were easily picked out as they left Guantánamo Bay and made their way through the Windward Passage.

  The screens advanced hour by hour. The three-knot speed of advance made the blips look almost stationary, so Toad flipped quickly through the screens, then had to wait while the data feed caught up.

  Jake Grafton joined him, and they looked at the screens together.

  The two blips crawled north, past Mayaguana, past San Salvador, then they sped up. The destroyer turning back was obvious.

  As Jake and Toad watched, the blip that was the Colón turned southeast, back toward the Bahamas archipelago. Then the blip merged into a sea of white return.

  “Now what?”

  “It’s rain,” Jake said. “There was a storm. The blip is buried somewhere in that rain return. Call NSA. See if they can screen out the rain effect.”

  He was right; the rain did obscure the blip. But NSA could not separate the ship’s return from that caused by rain.

  “See if they can do a probability study, show us the most probable location of the Colón in the middle of that mess.”

  The computing the admiral requested took hours, and the results were inconclusive. As the intensity of the showers increased and decreased, the probable location of the ship expanded and contracted like a living circle. Jake and Toad drank coffee and ate sandwiches as they waited and watched the computer presentations.

  Jake wandered around the compartment looking at maps between glances at the computer screen and conversations over another encrypted circuit with the brass in the Pentagon. The White House was in the loop now—the president wanted to know how in hell a shipload of chemical and biological warheads could disappear.

  “What do you think happened, Admiral?” Toad asked.

  “Too many possibilities.”

  “Do the people in Washington blame you for not having the Colón escorted all the way to Norfolk?”

  “Of course. The national security adviser wants to know why the destroyer left the Colón.”

  Toad bristled. “You weren’t told to escort that ship, you were told to guard the base. Escorting that ship out of the area wasn’t your responsibility.”

  “Somebody is going to second-guess every decision I make,” Jake Grafton said, “all of them. They’re doing that right now. That comes with the stars and the job.”

  “Hindsight is a wonderful thing.”

  “I’ll be out on the golf course soon enough, and the only person who will second-guess me then will be my wife.”

  Despite the best efforts of the wizards in Maryland and aboard ship, the location of the Colón under the rain of the cold front could not be established. Jake gave up, finally.

  “Tell them to move forward in time. Let’s see where the ship was after the storm.”

  But when the rain ceased, the computer could not identify the Colón from the other ship returns. There were thirty-two medium-to large-sized vessels in the vicinity of the Bahamas alone.

  Toad stayed on the encrypted circuit to the NSA wizards. Finally he hung up the handset and turned to the admiral.

  “They can assign track numbers to each blip, watch where they go, and by process of elimination come up with the most likely blips. There is a lot of computing involved. The process will take hours, maybe a day or two.”

  Jake Grafton picked up the flight schedule, took a look, then handed it to Toad. “Put the air wing up in a surface search pattern. Let’s see what we can find out there now.”

  Toad turned to the chart on the bulkhead. “Where do you want them to look?”

  “From the north coast of Cuba north into the Bahamas. Look along the coast of Hispaniola, all the way to Puerto Rico. Do the Turks and Caicos. Have the crews photograph every ship they see. Have NSA establish current ship tracks, then match up what the air crews see with what the satellite sees. Then let’s
run the current plot backward.”

  “Someone got a lucky break with the rain storm,” Toad commented. “Maybe they were playing for the break, maybe it just happened.”

  “Send a top secret message to the Gitmo base commander. Find out everything they know about the crew of that ship.”

  Jake Grafton tapped the chart. “The president gave everyone in uniform their marching orders. Find that ship.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Maximo Sedano flashed his diplomatic passport at the immigration officer in the Madrid airport and was waved through after a perfunctory glance. His suitcase was checked through to Zurich, and of course customs passed his attaché case without inspection. Traveling as a diplomat certainly had its advantages—airport security did not even x-ray a diplomat’s carry-on bags.

  The Cuban minister of finance wandered the airport terminal luxuriating in the ambiance of Europe. The shops were full of delicacies, books, tobacco, clothes, liquor, the women were well turned out, the sights and smells were of civilization and prosperity and good living.

  In spite of himself, Maximo Sedano sighed deeply. Ah, yes …

  Spain or one of the Spanish islands would be his choice for retirement. With Europe at his feet, what more could a man want? And retirement seemed to Maximo to be almost within reach.

  What was the phrase? “Fire in the belly”? Some Yanqui politician said to win office one must have fire in the belly.

  After a morning of thinking about it, Maximo concluded he didn’t have the fire. After Fidel died, Fidel’s brother, Raúl or Maximo’s brother Hector, or Alejo Vargas, or anyone else who could kill his rivals could rule Cuba—Maximo had given up trying for that prize. He’d take the money.

  And all the things money can buy: villas, beautiful women, yachts, gourmet food, fine wine, beautiful women … Someone else could stand in the Plaza de la Revolucion in Havana and revel in the cheers of the crowd.

  He filed aboard the plane to Zurich and settled cheerfully into his seat. He smiled at the flight attendant and beamed at the man across the aisle.

  Life is good, Maximo told himself, and unconsciously fingered his breast pocket, where the cards were that contained Fidel’s signature and thumbprints.

  Why go back?

  Fifty-three or -four million American dollars was more than enough. To hell with the gold!

  As the jet accelerated down the runway, Maximo told himself that the only smart thing was to take the money and retire. Now was the hour. Reel in the fish on the line—don’t let it off the hook to cast for another.

  He could transfer the money, spend three or four days shuffling it around, then leave Zurich on the Argentine passport as Eduardo José López. Maximo Sedano would cease to exist.

  Off to Ibiza, buy a small cottage overlooking the sea, find a willing woman, not too young, not too old …

  Yes.

  He would do it.

  The sudden death of Fidel Castro caught Alejo Vargas off guard. The dictator’s death was supposed to be days, even weeks, away. Unfortunately Vargas’s political position was precarious, to say the least. He really could have used Fidel’s endorsement, however obtained. At least now no one would get it.

  Although he had lived his whole life in his brother’s shadow, Raúl Castro nominally held the reins of government. Alejo Vargas thought that without Fidel, Raúl was completely out on a limb, without a political constituency of his own.

  While he tried to analyze the moves on the board, Vargas had Colonel Santana lock Mercedes in a bedroom, seal the presidential palace, and put a security man on the telephone switchboard. He didn’t want the news of Fidel’s death to get out before he was ready.

  Vargas left Santana in charge of the palace and took his limo back to the ministry. Of course he refrained from using the telephone in his limo to issue orders. The Americans listened to every radio transmission on telephone frequencies and would soon know as much about his business as he did. He sat silently as the limo carried him through the afternoon traffic to the ministry.

  There he called his most trusted lieutenants to his office and issued orders. Bring Admiral Delgado and General Alba to this office immediately. Find and arrest Hector Sedano.

  Alejo Vargas stood at the window looking at Morro Castle and the sea beyond. Far out from shore he could just make out the deep blue of the Gulf Stream, which appeared as a thin blue line just under the horizon. An overcast layer was moving in from the southeast and a breeze was picking up.

  A historic day … Fidel Castro, the towering giant of Cuban history was dead. The end of an era, Vargas thought, and the beginning of a new one, one he would dominate.

  Despite the timing surprise, Vargas really had no choice: he was going to have to go forward with his plan. He had concluded a month or so ago that the only course open to him upon the death of Castro was to create a situation that would induce the Cuban people to rally around him. He would need boldness and a fierce resolve if he were to have a chance of success, but he was just the man to risk everything on one roll of the dice. After he personally loaded them.

  Colonel Santana brought an American artillery shell to Havana yesterday, one removed from Nuestra Señora de Colón. The thing was in the basement of the ministry now, under armed guard. The Cuban leadership had known for years that the Americans had CBW weapons stored at Guantanamo. Now the Americans were removing the things, but too late! Thanks to El Gato, Vargas had one he could show the world. Soon he hoped to have a great many more.

  Alejo Vargas took a deep breath, stretched mightily, helped himself to a cigar. He lit it, inhaled the smoke, and blew it out through his nose. Then he laughed.

  “I want a little house with a garden. Every day food to eat. Children. A doctor to make them well when they get sick. A man who loves me. Is that so much?”

  Dora’s mouth was so dry she didn’t enunciate her words clearly, but Ocho knew what she meant. They lay head to head under the awning in the shade as the Angel del Mar pitched and rolled endlessly in the long sea swells.

  Surrounded by a universe of water they couldn’t drink, the twenty-six humans aboard the boat were tortured by thirst and baked by the sun. Many had bad sunburns now, raw places where the skin had blistered and peeled off, leaving oozing sores. The old fisherman dipped buckets of water from the sea and poured salt water over the burns. He gently poured sea water on the small children, who had long ago ceased crying. Perhaps the water would be absorbed by their dehydrated tissues. If not, it would at least help keep them cool, ease their suffering somewhat.

  Near Dora a woman was repeating the Rosary, over and over, mumbling it. Now and then another woman joined in for a few minutes, then fell silent until the spirit moved her again.

  It seemed as if everyone left alive had lost someone to the sea that first night. The cries and grief were almost more than people could bear when they realized who had been lost, and that they were gone forever. Mothers cried, daughters were so distraught they shook, the hopelessness hit everyone like a hammer. The mother of the captain, who saw him dead, shot in the back, could neither move nor speak. As Dora talked, Ocho watched the woman, who sat now at the foot of the mainmast, holding on to it with one hand and a daughter or daughter-in-law with the other.

  Every now and then Ocho sat or stood and searched the horizon. Nothing. Not a boat, not land, not a ship. Nothing.

  Oh, three airplanes had gone over, two jets way up high making contrails and a twin-engine plane perhaps two miles up that had crossed the sky straight as a string, without the slightest waver as it passed within a half mile of Angel del Mar, rolling her guts out in the swells.

  To see the airplanes, with their people riding inside, safe, full of food and drink, on their way from someplace to somewhere else, while we poor creatures are trapped here on this miserable boat, condemned to die slowly of thirst and exposure …

  Surely the boat would be found soon … by somebody! Anybody! How can the Americans not see us? How?

  Do they see
us and not care?

  Ocho was standing, watching for other ships and listening to Dora talk of the house she wanted, with the flowers by the door, when he realized that the dark place he could see to the west was a rain squall.

  “Rain,” he whispered.

  “Rain.” He shouted the word, pointed.

  The squall was upon them before anyone could muster the energy to do anything. The people stood with their mouths open as raindrops pounded them and soaked their clothes and ran off the awning and along the deck, to disappear into the scuppers.

  “The awning! Quickly. Make a container from the awning to trap the water!”

  Ocho untied one corner with fingers that were all thumbs, the old fisherman did another corner, and they held the corners up, trapping water.

  They had a few gallons when the rain ceased falling.

  Several of the men tried to lean over, drink from the awning.

  “No. Children first.”

  Ocho managed to catch one man by the back of the neck and throw him to the deck.

  “Children first.”

  One by one the children were allowed to drink all they could hold. Then the women.

  Several of the men got a swallow or two each, then the water was gone.

  Ocho sat down, wiped the sweat and water from his hair and sucked it from his fingers. The only water he had gotten had been from holding his mouth open.

  Dora had drunk her fill. Now she lay on the deck with her eyes closed.

  Diego Coca had even gotten a swallow. He looked about with venomous eyes, then lay down beside his daughter.

  “We must rig the awning so that it will catch water if the rain comes again,” Ocho said to the old fisherman.

  They worked at it, cut a hole in the low place in the canvas and put a five-gallon bucket under the hole.

  If it will just rain again, Ocho thought, studying the clouds. Please God, hear our prayer.

  “Why are you here, on this boat?” the old fisherman asked Ocho, who stared at him in surprise.

  “Why are you here?” the fisherman repeated. “You aren’t like us.”

  Ocho looked around at his fellow sufferers, unable to fathom the old man’s meaning.