Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt Adventure)

by Clive Cussler

  “Any problem with the ship?” Díaz asked.

  “No, sir. The prisoners are secure and the ship is quiet. We’ve been awaiting further orders.”

  “Molina tells me that no communications were made by the vessel during the assault.”

  “We caught the bridge crew unaware, so we believe that is true. A U.S. Coast Guard vessel pestered us on the radio for some time when we relocated the ship, but they were turned away when we alerted a Cuban Navy patrol craft in the area.”

  “Very well.”

  “Sir, we just received a call from shore ops. They received a report that a helicopter departing the facility earlier this morning went down near Puerto Escondido while en route to Havana.”

  “Any survivors?”

  “Unknown. Army forces and a dive rescue team have been called to the site. Updates will be provided as they learn more.”

  Díaz’s face tightened. Could Pitt have had a hand in the crash? But all was not lost. If Pitt was dead, perhaps he could substitute Pitt’s daughter as a suspect in Raúl’s death.

  He turned and pointed to the explosives stacked on the deck. “The general has ordered the destruction of the ship. Where is the American crew?”

  “They are being held in two locked laboratories near the stern.”

  “Keep them there. Your orders are to scuttle the ship with all hands after nightfall. There are to be no survivors. Do you understand?”

  The commando nodded. “It will be done. No survivors.”

  60

  The crew imprisoned in the Sargasso Sea’s wet lab recoiled when the lone door was flung open. One of the ship’s helmsmen, a diminutive man named Ross, was shoved through the door, clutching a large cardboard box. A pair of armed commandos followed him in and scanned the room from behind the muzzles of their assault rifles. They nudged Ross forward to distribute the box’s contents.

  “Ross, is that you?” Captain Smith asked from the back of the bay. He was seated in a desk chair with his feet propped on a stool and his chest wrapped in gauze. While he was still weak, his eyes were bright and alert.

  Ross made his way to the captain, passing out bottles of water. He moved gingerly, sporting a black eye and a bruised cheek.

  “Sir, the ship’s been relocated nine miles off the coast. A crew boat came alongside a short time ago. My Spanish is a little spotty, but I think one of the commandos on the bridge said they brought some explosives aboard and they intend to sink the ship tonight with us on it.”

  Smith’s ashen face seemed to pale further, then a swell of anger turned his cheeks red. “Keep that to yourself, Ross.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you know of the crew being held in the other lab?” Giordino asked.

  “They seem to be holding up fine except for Tyler, who’s lost a lot of blood. They let me drop a box of provisions there before I came here.”

  “Is that what’s in the box?” Smith asked.

  “Yes, a bit of a mad mix of food stores. They gave me ten seconds in the galley, so I grabbed whatever was within reach.”

  “You!” One of the guards motioned to Ross. “Hurry up. And no talking.”

  “Distribute that to the rest of the crew,” Smith said.

  Ross nodded, passing out apples and water as he made his way up front. The guards escorted him out of the lab and locked the door behind them.

  The captain motioned to Dirk and Giordino. “We’re in a tight fix,” he said in a low voice. “Any ideas?”

  “It’s a sure bet we’re supposed to ride the ship to the bottom,” Dirk said. “Unfortunately, there’s not a lot of options.”

  “There’s no way out of here on our own accord.” Giordino waved his arm around the lab. Immediately after being locked up, he’d examined every square inch for an escape route. But absent a blowtorch, there was none. The lab was essentially a big steel box with a single entry point. “Our only chance will be to jump the guards next time they open the door.”

  Dirk nodded. “It’s all we can do.”

  Smith shook his head. “There are always at least two armed men at the door. You’ll both get killed.”

  As he spoke, the captain squirmed in his seat, causing his legs to slip off the stool and crash to the floor. The pain wrenched through his shoulder and he cursed.

  Standing closest to him, Dirk helped readjust his seat. As Dirk bent down, he noticed that a lower shelf on the lab bench held a large bottle of iodine and several other reagents used by the lab’s scientists. As he examined the bottles, an idea formed.

  “Captain, about Al’s suggestion . . .” He rose to his feet, clasping a few of the bottles. “What if I can improve our odds a bit?”

  61

  Pitt came to amid a clamor of voices. He rubbed his eyes, shaking off a grogginess that made him forget where he was. He rolled onto his elbows, and the sharp pain in his left shoulder instantly restored his memory of the helicopter crash. He peered through a low hedge of bushes to locate the source of the shouting.

  It came from some divers on a military dive boat working a short distance offshore. A small inflatable cruised the shoreline, presumably looking for survivors. He was stunned at their sudden arrival, then glanced at his Doxa wristwatch and realized he had been out for nearly two hours. He touched his hand to the gash on his neck and shoulder, feeling a mass of dried blood. No wonder he’d passed out.

  From the commotion on the dive boat, it seemed the rescue team had located the remains of the helicopter. Pitt watched as five body bags were passed over the boat’s rail to a team of divers in the water. It wouldn’t be long before someone would realize there had been a sixth person of interest aboard the chopper.

  Pitt took stock of the terrain. He had staggered into a small grove of bay cedar shrubs growing beneath a banyan tree. It was the only significant cover for thirty yards around. The open beach stretched for a half mile to his left, while a boulder-strewn bluff blocked passage to his right. Behind him was an open, rocky incline that rose toward the inland jungle a short distance away.

  Pitt was considering a path up the hill when he heard the sound of brakes squealing just above. He spied the top of a canvas-covered military truck pull to a stop near the jungle fringe. There was a road atop the hill. But for now it was out of reach as a squad of Revolutionary Armed Forces soldiers dispersed from the truck and began combing down the slope toward the beach.

  Pitt moved to the corner of the thicket and crawled under a large bay cedar as a pair of soldiers trod by. They didn’t linger but instead proceeded through the thicket and onto the beach. But something caught the attention of one of the soldiers. He stopped and looked down, examining the sand at his feet.

  It was Pitt’s footprints. They led one way from the surf, up the beach and into the thicket. Pitt watched as the soldier slowly traced the prints back to the banyan tree. The ground was firm around the base of the tree, the prints less distinct. The soldier pivoted around as he searched the area. There was no way Pitt could avoid detection, so he took to the offensive. Waiting until the soldier turned away, he sprang from the bush.

  It took Pitt two steps to reach him undetected. He swung his fist, delivering a blow that struck just above the soldier’s belt, forcing him to stagger. He spun around to bear his assault rifle, but Pitt was ready. He grabbed the barrel and jammed it to the soldier’s chest, then delivered a blow to his face with his free hand.

  The soldier dropped to his knees, letting go of the rifle. Pitt snatched the weapon and turned it on the soldier, who he now saw was a boy barely seventeen—likely an unwilling conscript, certainly not on the order of Díaz’s highly trained men. The hapless soldier gazed at Pitt with a look of fear.

  “Get!” Pitt ordered in a low voice.

  The soldier scrambled to his feet and staggered toward the beach. Pitt took off in the other direction, up the hill as fast
as his rubbery legs would carry him. He didn’t look back when he heard the young soldier shouting to his comrades but ducked when a burst of gunfire shattered some rocks at his side.

  Armed with the soldier’s AK-47, Pitt sprayed the beach with a short salvo, then continued up the hill. His return fire bought him a few more seconds, just enough time to approach the top of the incline before the shooting from below resumed, this time from multiple sources. He gambled that the other soldiers were equally young and inexperienced marksmen and he continued racing to the top. A ribbon of lead chased him the last few steps, but he was able to dive over the ledge and out of sight.

  He rolled into a shallow gully that abutted a narrow paved road. The empty military truck sat a short distance ahead. Thoughts of commandeering the truck vanished when he saw two soldiers setting up a checkpoint behind it. They dropped their barricade posts and peered over the side ledge to see what the shooting was about.

  Pitt rose and sprinted across the road. He nearly made it unseen, but one of the soldiers caught his movement and yelled. Pitt countered by firing a short burst in their direction, then raked the truck’s engine compartment while continuing across the road. The rifle’s half-loaded clip ran dry, and Pitt ditched the weapon as he ducked into the jungle scrub.

  He had no time to hesitate. Soldiers from the beach began pouring onto the road behind him. The barricade guards pointed to where he had gone and the soldiers converged on his last position.

  Pitt sprinted a dozen yards into the foliage, then turned sharply to the right and ran parallel to the road. He stopped for a second and picked up a rock, which he hurled in the opposite direction. The noise of it striking a tree elicited a crack of gunfire and a pursuit, he hoped, in the wrong direction.

  After some hundred yards, he angled to his right until brief glimpses of the road appeared. He approached the fringe and took a peek back down the road.

  An old sedan coming from the opposite direction had been stopped at the barricade. Nearer to Pitt, a pair of soldiers were walking along the road, peering into the jungle every few yards. He saw some movement behind him and knew there was no time to rest.

  Ducking back into the jungle’s protective cover, he continued running parallel to the road. A minute later, he tripped and fell, his weakened legs failing to clear a dead branch. As he pulled himself to his feet, he heard the car coming down the road.

  Thinking fast, he grabbed the branch and dragged it toward the road. He found that he was at the tail end of a curve that obscured both the barricade and the approaching car. He quickly dragged the branch into the middle of the road, then dove into some bushes on the far side as the car rounded the corner and slammed on its brakes.

  Pitt recognized the vehicle as a 1957 Plymouth Fury, one of thousands of aged American cars that ordinary Cubans continued to drive as a result of the decades-long trade embargo. Though its body was bruised and its hubcaps mismatched, the chrome bumpers still sparkled and its white paint shined from years of polishing that had buffed it nearly down to the primer.

  The two-door hardtop was driven by an older man and woman. They climbed out and dragged the branch off the road. As the couple returned to the car, Pitt emerged from the bushes and held his empty hands out in front of him. He found himself looking into the faces of a gracefully aged Cuban couple who were both smartly dressed.

  “Hola!” The man took a step back.

  “Hello,” Pitt said with a smile. “I am desperate for a ride. Sorry to trouble you.”

  The woman studied Pitt, noting the wound on his shoulder, the bloodied clothes, and the haggard yet pleasing face. “Are you hurt?”

  Before he could answer, she rushed to his side and led him to the car. She turned to her husband. “Salvador, hurry, help this man into the back of the car. We have to get him home.”

  Just as they pulled away, Pitt saw two soldiers pop out of the jungle, where he had stood seconds before, and stare at the old car rumbling down the road.

  62

  The Plymouth turned off the pockmarked paved road and onto an equally rutted dirt lane. Pitt’s shoulder ached with every pothole, the car’s tired suspension relaying each bump in full. Something beneath him in the backseat scratched at his side with every jostle.

  After a rough patch of gravel, the car finally stopped and the motor shut off.

  The woman, though tiny, possessed a domineering presence. Her full cheeks and wide eyes suggested the beauty of her youth.

  “We are here, señor.” She turned to her husband. “Salvador, take this man inside and get him cleaned up. He shall join us for dinner. I just hope he didn’t mangle the chickens.”

  After helping Pitt out of the car, she reached into the backseat and pulled out a dead pair of whole chickens whose claws had been the source of Pitt’s discomfort. Perusing them with satisfaction, she marched into a small house perched along the sloped drive.

  Pitt looked at the man and grinned. “You married a powerful woman.”

  “Maria? She is as strong as an ox in all ways. Once she makes up her mind, there is no changing it. I learned long ago to avoid the sharp tip of her horns.”

  Pitt laughed. “Sounds like sage advice.”

  “My name is Salvador Fariñas.” He extended his hand.

  “Dirk Pitt.”

  “Come this way, Mr. Pitt, and we’ll get you cleaned up as Maria asks.”

  Fariñas led Pitt to the pitched-roof house, which had a tired and faded façade. Its position on a steep bluff offered a commanding view of the ocean. Pitt saw the paved road a half mile below and the shoreline of a small bay some distance beyond.

  Inside the house, Pitt was surprised to find a stylish interior. Dark Saltillo tile covered the floor, supporting a mix of modern furniture. A huge picture window facing the ocean illuminated the stark white walls, which were curiously bare. A single brightly colored painting occupied an empty wall next to a fireplace. Pitt admired the depiction of a fisherman displaying his catch, painted in the style of Gauguin. “That is quite good.”

  “Maria painted it. She was a famous artist in Havana many years ago. Regrettably, that is the only work of hers we now possess.”

  “She has a gift.”

  Fariñas guided Pitt to a cramped bathroom shower and left him with soap and towels. It took nearly twenty minutes to scrub away the dried blood and the pain of his injuries. Borrowing some bandages and a fresh shirt from Fariñas, he looked and felt like a new man when he stepped into the main living quarters.

  Maria had plucked and cleaned the chickens and was busy cooking. Fariñas offered Pitt a glass of aguardiente, a harsh, locally fermented rum, which he downed with gratitude.

  “To your kindness to strangers,” Pitt said when his host filled their glasses again.

  “You are most welcome.”

  “Salvador, may I ask if you have a telephone?”

  Fariñas shook his head. “We are fortunate to have reliable plumbing and electricity, but the phone lines haven’t reached us. And Maria refuses to purchase a cell phone.”

  “It’s urgent I make an international call.”

  “I can take you to Santa Cruz del Norte after supper. You should be able to make a call from there.”

  Maria stepped from the kitchen with her paella-like dish, arroz con pollo.

  “Please, sit down. And, Salvador, please open a bottle of Soroa for our guest.” She turned to Pitt. “It’s a local white wine I think you will enjoy.”

  They sat and ate. Having not eaten a full meal in two days, Pitt devoured three platefuls of the chicken and rice. “You are as excellent a chef as you are a painter, Maria.”

  “That is kind of you to say. You know, Mr. Pitt, there are rumors that President Castro has been murdered.”

  “Yes, I have also heard that.”

  “A guard at the roadblock said an American has been implicated and had e
scaped custody in the area.”

  Pitt looked her in the eye. “I would be that American. And I assure you I had nothing to do with Castro’s death. But I may know who did.”

  Maria looked at him with a hint of disappointment.

  Her husband guffawed. “You needn’t worry, Mr. Pitt, about Maria turning you over to the Army. Many years ago, she served three years in custody for a painting that was deemed disrespectful to the state.”

  “It is true.” Maria’s eyes filled with fire. “An imbecile Army colonel running the Ministry of Culture took offense to a painting I did of a gun emplacement filled with flowers. They destroyed my studio and confiscated all of my work, locked it away in the ministry building.” She pointed to the lone canvas. “That is the only painting I kept hidden from them.”

  “Why don’t you paint again?” Pitt asked.

  An inward look crossed Maria’s face. “When they stole my work, they stole a part of me, a part of who I am. I set down my brush that day and vowed never to paint again as long as the state suppressed my work.”

  She looked at Pitt with envy. “Cuba has lived for too long fighting a blanket of oppression against its own spirit. Perhaps change is finally in the air. I pray the change will be only for the good.”

  “When power is up for grabs,” Pitt said, “the first casualty is often liberty.”

  “There are always dark forces at play, it seems. Tell me, Mr. Pitt, what are you doing in Cuba?”

  Pitt described his search for the mercury poisoning and his capture by the Sea Raker. He relayed the urgency of halting the destruction of the thermal vents. His anguish showed when he mentioned his daughter was still being held captive.

  “We will help you return to your ship,” Maria said. “Salvador, help me wash the dishes and then we will take Mr. Pitt to Santa Cruz.”

  Pitt helped clear the plates, then ambled to the picture window, where a seaman’s telescope was trained on the waterfront. The sun was low as he gazed out the window and noticed a large luxury yacht moored offshore. Taking a closer look through the telescope, he spotted an odd banner flying over the bridge. Focusing the lens, he was startled to see the flag featured a red bear clutching an ax in its teeth.