RW15 - Seize the Day

by Richard Marcinko

  Finally I felt something bump against my back.

  My first thought wasn’t a happy one. I spun around, grabbing at the shadow, fearing I was too late, that he’d been killed somehow.

  The son of a bitch smiled at me. He yelled something that I couldn’t hear. He yelled again, and I realized the exploding missile had popped my ears out temporarily.

  “What—took—you—so—long?” said Junior, slowly mouthing and shouting the words.

  “You’re in a whole shitload of trouble, kid,” I yelled back.

  He grinned. Probably he said something like, “So what else is new?”

  “You all right?” I asked.

  He grinned again.

  “Better than you, old man.”

  I didn’t hear that, or I would have smacked him so hard his teeth would have ended up in his rump.

  I looked around, getting my bearings. The helicopter had banked east. Obviously we were going to have to find another way home.

  “Let’s swim for one of those boats,” I said, starting out. “Pick the nearest one.”

  The crew on the Cuban patrol boat had recovered from their near infection experience with Junior and were now responding to the developing situation the way a professional navy should. Though they’d missed the helicopter, they had chased it from the area without its harming any of the small boats they were charged with protecting.

  Now their radar showed there was a second aircraft in the vicinity—the Martin PBM.

  As soon as M.W. saw the launch warning, he started a series of evasive maneuvers—pilot language for flying like a maniac. He ducked two missiles with the help of his decoy flares, and threw his fuzz busters back on, hoping to jam anything more ambitious.

  The ECMs scrambled the radar aboard both Cuban ships, knocking out the targeting gear on the antiaircraft guns. But the weapons could be manually aimed, and a low and slow target like the PBM brought out the best in the gun crews. Bullets began puncturing the hull of the boat as M.W. swung away from a second volley of surface-to-air missiles. He turned the plane hard on its wing, almost directly into a barrage from the second patrol boat, which was a bit farther north.

  “We gotta get the hell out of here,” said M.W., trying to find some part of the sky that wasn’t full of lead. “Hang on.”

  “How do I work the loudspeaker?” asked Red.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The loudspeaker. You said you had one, right? When you were showing me the gear.”

  “Yeah, but —”

  “How do I use it?”

  “You don’t. We’re getting the hell out of here.”

  A few weeks before, Red would have made an appeal to M.W.’s patriotism. But her time with us—Trace especially—had shown her how to quickly size up a person and appeal to them properly.

  “Dick will double your fee,” she said.

  “Where do you want me to fly?”

  Trace saw the flares of the rocket launches from the motorized whaleboat she and the others had commandeered. Realizing the helicopter was under fire, she maneuvered the boat in that direction, expecting that she would be needed to pick up survivors.

  Murphy directed the prow of her boat directly in our path. He also threw the shadows so that it was impossible to see us.

  By now the flares had all died and the ocean around was just a dark collection of shadows and blackness. My ears were still shot, and with all the strum and drum neither Junior nor I realized the whaleboat was bearing down on us. When it was maybe ten feet away, I looked over my shoulder, saw the dark shadow.

  “Down!” I yelled, reaching toward Junior to throw him under the water as I dove. But he was a foot or so too far away, and I missed him. The whaleboat drove on, oblivious. I dove downward, but Junior hadn’t heard my warning. The whaleboat smacked his arm and side, spinning him around. Stunned, he floundered in the water, then began to sink.

  Trace, Shotgun, and Crusty immediately hove to, stopping the engine and turning the boat back in our direction.

  When I saw Junior floating in the water, my first thought was that he’d been clipped by the propellers that had missed me. I closed my eyes, and stroked toward him. I purposely avoided his arms or legs, ducking my shoulder down and then came up in his chest, trying to act like a giant life preserver.

  Shotgun fished us out, depositing both of us together on the bottom of the boat with a crash that nearly swamped it.

  Crusty expressed his joy at seeing us with his usual aplomb:

  “What the goddamn hell are you doing swimming around in the dark?”

  At least my hearing had returned. I got to my knees, and saw that Junior had all his limbs. His senses were a different story. But he was breathing. I left him with Crusty and went over to Trace, who was still at the wheel.

  “We have to get away from the flotilla,” I told her. “The fleet’s going to blow it up.”

  “Where do you want me to go?”

  “Just turn around,” I said.

  “We’re going to let the navy blow all these people up?” said Trace.

  “You got a better idea?”

  “There has to be one.”

  I took her sat phone—mine was in the drink somewhere—and dialed Ken.

  “Dick, where the hell are you?” he thundered as soon as he picked up.

  “I’m with the Cubans. We need to get these boats—”

  “It’s out of my hands, Dick,” he said, cutting me off. “The president wants them sunk. The Harriers are on the way. You get the hell away from them. Give me something to identify your boat.”

  Before I could think of how to answer, a siren sounded overhead. Then a woman’s voice began speaking in Spanish.

  “Fellow Cubans! Now is the hour of opportunity! With Fidel out of the way, it is time to retake Havana! Change course for the west! It is time to return our homeland to the people!”

  It was Red, broadcasting over the PA system M.W. used to lead parades and jolly boaters on pleasant afternoons.

  The only effect the speech had at first was to concentrate the antiaircraft fire from the patrol boats. The PBM zipped downward, then banked behind the flotilla as Red continued to broadcast.

  “They’ll be shot down!” said Trace.

  “Don’t worry about them—they’ll fend for themselves,” I told her. “Turn us west, and head toward land.”

  “But—”

  “The other boats will follow. Shotgun, fire that pistol. Get their attention.”

  I could hear the jets approaching. Something flared from one of the patrol boats. Then a Roman candle erupted from the other one.

  One of the Harriers had hit it with an air-to-surface missile.

  “Hoo-rah!” yelled Shotgun.

  “Don’t cheer too loudly,” said Crusty. “We’re next.”

  “Hey look,” said Trace, glancing behind her. “The Cubans are following us. The boats are following us.”

  Up in the plane, Red continued to broadcast.

  “Hold on, hold on,” said M.W., “we’re getting something in from the navy.”

  He killed the PA so he could listen in. The lead Harrier pilot told him, somewhat politely, to get the hell out of the way so he could blow the boats to smithereens.

  “Negative, negative!” shouted M.W. “We have people on those boats. Navy people,” he added, thinking this might convince the aviator.

  It had about as much effect as pissing in the wind.

  “Sorry, sir. I have my orders. Now get out of the way.”

  _______

  By ones, twos, and threes, the Cuban boats began following us in the direction of Havana. But I knew it was only a matter of time before the Harriers would decide to press their attack.

  I hadn’t killed my connection to Ken. I raised the phone to my ear, trying to come up with some way to talk him into stopping the assault.

  “The boats are following us,” I told him. “They’re going to Cuba.”

  “I don’t c
are, Dick,” he said. “Truthfully, if there was an epidemic there, it’d be devastating. The only humane thing we can do is kill them now, before they infect the island.”

  “The Cubans have an antidote,” said Junior. His voice sounded like the rasp of a rusty saw. “They ordered an antidote brought to the capital. It’s in the memos on the hard drive. That’s how I knew where to go.”

  “Ken. There’s an antidote in Havana,” I said. “An antidote. Let them land. Take out the gunboats and any defenses so they can get there, but let them land. The Cubans can deal with it. These people don’t have to die.”

  Doc was in the command center with Ken and the navy commanders, screaming at them to get the Harriers called off. One of the Harrier pilots called in for directions on what to do about the PBM, and then reported that the flotilla appeared to be heading for Havana.

  Ken told the attack force to hold off the attack until he contacted the president.

  A pair of Harriers streaked overhead, banking around as they surveyed the ragtag fleet that was now headed toward Havana.

  “They’re not firing,” said Trace. “He stopped them.”

  For about two seconds there, I felt good, as if we’d adverted a major catastrophe.

  And we had. Maybe. If Junior was right.

  One person would know—the hospital administrator lying in the stern of the boat, hands and feet bound by strips of cotton from Shotgun’s shirt.

  I went over and pulled him up by the neck.

  “Tell me about the disease,” I said to him. “What’s the cure?”

  “I know nothing.”

  “Tell me, or you’re going over the side.”

  He began crying, insisting that he knew nothing.

  “I don’t know anything about the drugs. The doctors. It was all the doctors. They worked on it for ten years, perfecting it.”

  “Is there an antidote?”

  “I think—yes, but I don’t know.”

  “Take us back to the hospital,” I told Trace.

  “They’re not there. They’ve left.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Havana. I don’t know. Anywhere. They’ve been gone for the last nine or ten months. The project had become mature they said.”

  Mature as in ready to be launched.

  “Give me their names,” I told him.

  The fourth one was Spencer Rodriguez.

  “Spencer?” said Crusty. “That’s a strange name for a Cuban.”

  “His parents were English.”

  “Did you say Spencer Rodriguez?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I pulled out my sat phone and called Ken.

  “Can you get a helo to pick us up?” I asked. “We need a ride back north.”

  ( IX )

  The Seahawk that grabbed us was the same one that had deposited me earlier; he’d been orbiting to the west, waiting to see if he was needed before returning to his ship.

  With no crew aboard, the pilot had to hold the aircraft just a few inches above the waves. Despite the fact that Murphy was blowing as hard as possible in our direction, the pilot did a great job getting the helo close enough for us to get in. With Shotgun’s help, I pushed Junior in, then hopped in myself.

  Murphy didn’t want to let me go. He sent a gust of wind that swiped the chopper sideways, then just for giggles picked it up a dozen feet in an instant. I held on to the side of the door, managing to pull myself up just as the aircraft tucked forward. Hopping up, I slammed the door closed; within seconds we were hustling our way back toward the command ship.

  The Seahawk had flown to the very edge of its operating range, and the pilot spent most of the flight back fretting over his fuel supply. He was probably about ten seconds from telling me to get ready for a rough landing in the drink when the blinking beacon of the command ship came into view. We touched down with little more than vapor in the tanks. But that was just fine with me.

  Junior was pretty woozy. I helped him out of the chopper, carrying him in my arms as a pair of seamen and a marine rushed forward to help.

  “We have to get him to sick bay,” I told them. “Show me the way.”

  “We can help, sir.”

  “Just show me the way.”

  One of the seamen hopped to and led me into the ship, treading through the passages to the sick bay. The CIA guards there gave me a nasty look, but let me pass when they saw the kid in my arms.

  Dr. Rodriguez was in the same bed where I’d left him.

  “Well, Spencer, we meet again,” I said as I entered. “I brought you a patient.”

  The Cuban looked up from the gurney, puzzled.

  “I need a hypo,” I told the nearby corpsman. “A needle.”

  He hesitated, glancing in the direction of a set of drawers. I put Junior down on the gurney next to the doctor, then went to the drawer and took out a needle. Reaching into my pocket, I retrieved the small test tube I’d taken earlier.

  The top of the tube was made of thick glass and had been melted on. The damn thing was tough—I couldn’t get the top off, and even a couple of raps against the nearby counter failed to either crack it or get it loose. Finally I grabbed a nearby plastic cup, put the tube inside, and smashed it open with the butt of my knife.

  “What the hell are you doing?” asked the corpsman.

  I ignored him, filling the hypo and then going over to the doctor.

  “That’s one of your victims,” I told him, pointing at Junior. “How do we cure him?”

  “Dick—don’t!”

  Someone had fetched Ken. He was standing in the doorway.

  “Matthew here is infected with Ebola. I’d advise everyone to clear out,” I said.

  The corpsman’s eyes grew wide and he moved away.

  “Dick, if you infect the doctor, you’ll be arrested for murder.”

  “That’s not what this is about,” I told him. “We’re in this together, my son and I.”

  I plunged the needle into my arm.

  Junior blinked at me.

  “Dad?”

  I turned to the doctor. “How do we find a cure?”

  “You just . . . took it,” said the doctor. “The test tubes aboard our ship—they’re the antidote. For our people at the UN.”

  ___________________

  42 He was hanged.

  They don’t teach that in school anymore, do they? That’s half the problem right there.

  43 That’s a botched homage to Homer for all you literary types.

  ( I )

  A couple of things happened in pretty quick succession: Ken sent someone to get the other test tube I’d brought to the ship, orders were sent to seize the Cuban merchant vessel, and a seaman was dispatched to find that bottle of Bombay Sapphire I’d left behind earlier.

  Down near Cuba, the PBM landed in the water and picked up Trace and the others. They were a few minutes out of Miami when I got ahold of Red and told her what had happened.

  “Have the Cubans turn north,” I said. “If they go to Havana, they’ll die in seventy-two hours. There were plenty of test tubes aboard the merchant ship to save them.”

  “Thank you, Dick.” Red practically kissed me over the phone.

  There wasn’t enough in the test tubes, as it turned out. And the Cuban flotilla never actually made it that far north. The navy intercepted them. The terms of my nondisclosure with the government following the mission prevent me from telling you that American doctors were able to clone the cure and inoculate all of the Cubans, who were then brought into America in small groups so as not to alert the media what was going on. The sailors aboard the command ship received the same treatment, though they were never fully informed of what was going on. They did, however, receive an extra two weeks of liberty when the ship returned to port, and I’d guess that most of them would feel that was a more than square deal.

  Oh, was I not supposed to say that?

  Tear out this page and burn it. Or eat it. Whatever works for you.

  Most
of what I can say, you already know.

  Shortly after we wrapped up, Raul Castro formally took over for his brother and instituted what he called reforms. Among them: “ordinary” Cubans can now use cell phones, even if they can’t actually afford them, and can shop in places where they can’t afford to shop.

  Come to think of it, the place sounds more like America every day.

  Our new president has made some gestures toward better relations. It’s now easier for Cuban-Americans with family there to visit and send money. Will that help them in the long run? The answer, as they say, is above my pay grade.

  As of this writing, Fidel hasn’t died. If you don’t think that he’s still in charge in Cuba . . . I have a very nice bridge I’d like to sell you.

  What will happen in Cuba in the long run isn’t clear. I know what I hope will happen. I’m betting you do, too.

  Red, Shotgun, Mongoose, Trace, Doc, Danny, Sean, about a dozen people who were important behind the scenes but didn’t do anything to blow their cover and make the book—they’re all still with me. Crazy assholes.

  Junior spent about a week in the hospital, recovering not so much from the Ebola but from the battering he’d taken during the operation. He was chomping at the bit to get out several days before the doctors released him.

  I spent that week dictating this account. We’ve spoken just about every day since then, but we still haven’t talked over the father-son thing.

  Maybe we will, sometime soon. The important thing is, I know how I feel about him, and he knows it, too.

  Can’t ask much more from a pair of warriors, Rogue or otherwise.