Juan hadn’t turned us in, or the Maceo’s either. Yet. If he felt his family was in danger, wouldn’t he?
Being sympathetic only goes so far. But whom would he tell?
Gutierrez? The Peruvians? Sanchez?
Were they all in this together, or what?
Would the other fishermen rat Juan out for taking us in?
I thought of his family and felt sick. Everywhere I turned, everything always turned to shit.
“You must leave here, today, now!”
A tear slid down Nina’s cheek but I don’t even think she realized it was there. When I tried to take her shoulders in my hands, she pushed me away.
“Nina! I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Please to calm down—”
“Calm down! I’d call MININT myself if Papi didn’t have that damned plane!”
She went on in Spanish, her rant directed at him, too. When she balled her fists on her hips and closed her eyes, I chanced a step forward and put my arms around her. The smell of her hair was fresh, with the delicate scent of a combination of fruits. I loosened my grip. She put her hands on my chest and pushed me back, then spun on her heel and stormed outside.
I followed after her to the barn, where Ray and Señor Maceo were already at work. We walked in silence and all I could feel was dread that I’d put their lives in jeopardy, along with Juan and Maria’s in Puerto Esperanza. They would all be better off if I turned myself in, once and for all.
But again, to whom?
With Betty gone, Last Resort Charters and Salvage was history. I didn’t have any prospects for income and nobody would miss me, so why risk all these people’s lives? I could trade the waterproofed pouch with all the maps to Gutierrez for their safety. But was he acting on his own? Had he gone rogue? It only took another twenty feet of walking along the gravel path to catch myself: Gutierrez would never honor any deal I made with him. He’d take the maps and revenge on anyone who helped us. And if he or any of them believed what I assumed Raul Acosta told them, that I took the treasure aboard Betty, they’d never give up the search for us.
The late morning light lit the basement through the open barn doors. I was amazed at the progress. Betty’s float was now on the starboard wing to replace the one on the Beast that had been crushed. The tires had been replaced, the old wing had been cut cleanly off, the engine was on a cart, and the crumpled wing leaned against the wall.
“Papi!”
Nina’s recap of Juan’s news was punctuated by fingers pointed at me, then Ray, then the Beast. I didn’t need to speak Spanish to read Señor Maceo’s reaction. He aged ten years, right before my eyes.
I looked at Ray. “We need to get out of here,” I said.
He whipped a wrench into the dirt. It made a thud and gouged the earthen floor.
“This could’ve worked, damnit!” he said.
“Did the pescadoro think his people would talk?” Señor Maceo said.
Nina looked toward the ceiling and held both hands out.
“Will fishermen defy the Secret Police? Colonel Gutierrez, the Hero of the Revolucion? Director Sanchez, the head of all the Secret Police? Please, Papi, enough of this fantasy.”
The old man sighed. “Nina, I’m sorry. Your dreams have been jeopardized because I hid this old plane. For me, I don’t care. I’m an old man, and I’ve kowtowed long enough to brutes who care only for their own power and nothing for Cuba’s future, much less its past.”
He turned his attention around the room and I followed his eyes. There were airplane parts strewn everywhere.
“The problem is that this plane, my Beauty, and all the pieces that came from the little Grumman, cannot be hidden,” he said. “If the pescadoros talk, and depending on how badly Gutierrez wants the information, they will … then sooner or later, the Secret Police will arrive here. That we cannot change.”
For a long moment nobody said anything.
“Sounds to me like the best way to get rid of the evidence is finish the job,” Ray said.
He had a point. And the fact of the matter was that the old man had come to find us, not the other way around. He’d hidden this old Goose for fifty-plus years, and however she felt about it Nina had gone along with it her whole life.
She slumped onto the bottom ladder rung and put her head in her hands.
It was dangerous, but our best move here was to remove all evidence of our presence, including past and current sins, before Gutierrez and his goons figured out where we were, or hopefully, where we’d been.
36
The Beast had far more room on the flight deck than I was used to. I lay on the floor between the seats and pulled old wires that had been destroyed by mice, rats, and bullets. I replaced the bare necessities of the fifty-year-old electronic gear with items removed from Betty. We only had to make it ninety miles, but crossing the Florida straits could be tricky, especially if we had weather or had to go at night.
Sparks flew through the air outside the port window, and I could hear Ray shimmy around on top of the fuselage. We’d rigged the hoist he’d used to lift the plane onto its landing gear to hold Betty’s port engine and wing in place for the welding operation. Ray was convinced the Widgeon’s six-cylinder Lycoming engine on the port side would work fine in conjunction with the Goose’s nine-cylinder radial engine on the starboard side. The weight differential between the two planes was dramatic, with the Widgeon at 3,200 pounds empty vs the Goose at 5,400 pounds empty, so finding the center of gravity was going to be tough. Had he not recently rebuilt Betty’s port engine I’d have had zero confidence in this plan.
The batteries and magnetos were pretty interchangeable, along with the alternators and the brake cylinders. The fuses were the same, but all the wires leading into the fuse box needed to be changed out. Sweat ran through my hair and into my eyes, which made them burn. Exhaustion made me despondent, or maybe just realistic: it was insane to think we could get the Beast ready to fly by tomorrow morning.
“Take a look,” Ray said from atop the plane.
I stepped back behind the tail.
“It looks ridiculous,” I said. “Betty’s engine looks tiny compared to the Beast’s. And the wing looks shorter—”
“Not so. We’ll use this gas tank for weight and leave the starboard side empty. I added metal from the old wing between the fuselage and the engine so both wings would be the same length. The Goose has a factory wingspan of forty-nine feet, and that’s what we have here.” He sighed. “Wish I had a decent rivet gun, though.”
“You’re worrying me, Ray.”
“How you doing inside?”
“Still need to work on the hydraulics, and we’re going to need brake fluid, not to mention aviation fuel—and what makes you think the starboard engine’s going to work, anyway?”
“The prop rotates okay by hand,” he said, “but I can’t promise it’ll fire up.”
“So why are we wasting our time here if you’re not sure of that?”
“It’s next on my list,” Ray said. “ Where’s Señor Maceo?”
“He went on a recon mission but promised to avoid Puerto Esperanza.”
“Sounds questionable. What about the girl?”
“Brooding in the house, I guess. We’ve pretty much turned her world upside down.”
“Your typical impact on women, then,” Ray said.
The thought of ‘women’ hadn’t entered my mind in—when had Karen left Key West? A week ago? It seemed forever. My mind turned to Nina when she ran up the driveway … when she climbed the ladder ahead of me … when I held her in the kitchen after the fisherman left. I was on the run for my life, my survival instincts dialed up to the max, trying to do an overnight rebuild of a plane that crashed fifty years ago with parts from my plane that crashed two days ago—combine their ages, and the two planes were over a hundred and twenty years old.
When things rush towards you at a hundred miles an hour, your senses jump up to another level. The highs are higher, the lows lower, and time just blows by. One sec
ond you feel invincible and run on pure adrenalin, the next you feel hopeless and count on dumb luck.
“I see the way you look at her,” Ray said.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re attracted to the farm girl. It’s like a bad joke. Admit it.”
“I’m not even going to dignify—I’ve got work to do. And so do you, Dr. Frankenstein,” I said. “Get back to work on your beast, we’re running out of daylight.”
I climbed back inside the hatch. I couldn’t allow myself to think of Nina that way, nor would I risk all our lives just because she was… beautiful, smart, feisty, and … focus.
Down on my knees, I considered the dusty floor and wished I had a Shop Vac.
“Buck?”
I jumped up. Hit my head on the bulkhead. Saw stars.
“Are you okay?” Nina said.
She was leaning inside the hatch watching me rub my scalp.
“Awesome. What’s up?”
The frightened look I’d seen in her eyes earlier was gone. Maybe she’d realized the best choice was for us to fly our collective problems out of here, or she had become resigned to the fact that it was the only choice. But she wouldn’t meet my eyes, and she held her arms together as if she were cold. In fact, for the first time since I’d met her, she looked to be at a loss.
“I’m just … worried, Buck. What if the fisherman comes back? Or worse, what if the authorities come?”
“Any sign of your grandfather?”
She shook her head.
I wanted to console her, let her know everything would be fine, but I couldn’t get the words out. I couldn’t lie to her.
“I’ve been thinking, Nina. When we get the Beast ready, why don’t you and your grandfather come with us? To America? For safety, that is. Once things settle down here in Cuba and the new government steps up, you can come back.”
She shrugged. “We are meant to be here, no matter what. If we wanted to run, we would have long ago.”
“But—”
“Ever since I was a girl, when I first found this plane, I always knew this time would come—”
“Nina!” Señor Maceo’s voice boomed down from above. “Buck Reilly? Señor Ray?”
There was something about the tone of his voice that caused us all to drop what we were doing and get topside. In the light of the main floor, the old man’s hands shook as he took hold of the railing.
He licked his lips. “They’re burning the fishing boats, one every few hours until the men explain what happened to your plane.”
“Which ‘they’ do you mean?”
“Colonel Gutierrez and his men. Once they run out of boats, he says they’ll burn houses.”
His face was ashen, his voice a whisper.
“This Gutierrez, he keeps yelling your name, Buck Reilly, over and over.”
“How did you learn this?” I asked.
“Juan Espedes. He met me in San Vicente, at the gas station. He’s terrified for his family, for his friends, he doesn’t know what to do.” He paused. “I lied and said I didn’t know where you were.”
“Did he say how many men are with Gutierrez?”
“He said two others,” the old man said. “All with guns, all crazy. Juan says they don’t act like policia, more like pandilleros, or hoodlums. Only one is in uniform.”
“Uniforms or not, guns are what matter,” Ray said.
If what Truck said about Gutierrez was accurate, then he clearly wasn’t acting on official business. Wealth equates to power in the vacuum after a government implodes. Sanchez and Gutierrez might have planned to use the Atocha riches to build their strength. But with the Peruvians here, and with Gunner in the mix, all bets were off. Truck thought half the crates were gone when we rescued him, so where could they be?
“Did Juan say anything about where Gutierrez had based his search?”
“No, but he did say Sanchez left instructions that if you or Gutierrez returned to Puerto Esperanza, the fishermen were to contact him at the Hotel las Jasmines in Viñales. As for Gutierrez, only that he had a car and a truck, and the men stayed in the truck.”
Based on his treatment of the fishermen, Gutierrez must have a lot more on his mind then revenge for when I sank his boat.
37
Back on the floor of the beast, up to my elbows in the spaghetti of wires behind the instrument panel, I couldn’t shake the description of Gutierrez’s men in Puerto Esperanza. Why would he have anyone besides uniformed PNR troops with him? What did the old man mean, they were ‘staying in the truck?’ Could they be guarding it? Was Gutierrez really in private enterprise with Sanchez but had gone AWOL? I couldn’t imagine the Cuban government sanctioning an overseas theft of treasure—
What’s that?
Lying on my back looking up behind the instrument panel I noticed a leather parcel. Too small to be the plane’s log … I reached up and pulled it down through the wires. It was covered in dust, like everything else. I shimmied back out and climbed into the right seat.
There was a small lock on the parcel, which I now saw was more like a flat, letter-sized package. The leather was old, dry and brittle. I yanked the edge hard and it disintegrated. Inside there was another envelope, plain white with a red, waxed seal. In faded type above the seal were the words:
TOP SECRET.
Below the seal was a name:
PRESIDENT FIDEL CASTRO
Holy shit.
I tore the corner of the envelope open and pulled out the contents, a single sheet of paper. I unfolded it and was startled at the heading.
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON
TOP SECRET
I read the letter through. It took a moment to realize I wasn’t breathing. I sucked in a quick breath, then read it again, more slowly this time ….
Dear President Castro, August 15, 1961
I apologize for the delay in responding to your proposal, which is why I have sent this in the most discreet yet expeditious manner given the deadline you set. Since the invasion force of former Cuban nationals destined for your country is imminent, time is, in fact, of the essence.
Per the confidential communiqué you sent through your emissary, I will agree to the following:
I will cancel all U.S. military assistance for the impending invasion;
We cannot control Cuban nationals, either inside Cuba or out, who will continue their aggression, but with our support terminated, your military will have little problem containing this challenge;
Once you have contained the uprising you will publically request that the President of the United States meet with you at a neutral location;
I will agree to that, and at this forum we shall mutually agree to the following:
The U.S. and Cuba will restore diplomatic relations;
The U.S. will restore our sugar subsidy, which prior to cancellation was approximately 700,000 tons per year;
Cuba will repatriate all U.S. or U.S. companies’ assets, including oil refineries, banks, real estate holdings, etc., and we will agree to new tariffs or mutually agreeable profit-sharing to help provide greater assistance to the Cuban people;
Cuba will cease all trade with the U.S.S.R.
You will reiterate your statements made in July 1959 that the new government is a “true democracy,” and you will initiate democratic elections within seven years.
If you are in agreement, then return this to me with your signature and personal stamp via the same courier who brought it to you.
We are at a watershed moment in the relations of our countries, and the entire hemisphere, for that matter. On behalf of the United States, we will move forward in good faith to withdraw from the invasion, in anticipation of your agreement to these aforementioned parameters that your envoy proposed on your behalf. I am pleased to move beyond the initial confusion between our countries and look forward to a bright future of trade and cultural exchange.
Sincerely,
John F. Kennedy
&
nbsp; My mouth was dry. I checked the envelope again, scrutinized the wax seal, and sure enough the initials J.F.K. were melted into the wax.
Holy shit.
The letter from Kennedy to Castro was clear, concise, and outlined a deal they must have been working on through trusted middlemen to rectify a rapidly deteriorating situation. The Beast must have been en route to a secret location where Castro was awaiting Kennedy’s response. When the plane never arrived, had Castro assumed Kennedy reneged? Or that he had declined the overture?
I checked the date again. It was the day The Bay of Pigs had commenced. When Kennedy withdrew U.S. military support at the last moment, he was castigated as a coward because he’d allowed the slaughter of Cuban nationals and because the effort had been an act of aggression designed to overthrow another sovereign nation’s leader. The mess brought universal condemnation from around the world. Within a month, Castro declared Cuba a Socialist nation for the first time since taking power.
Good grief.
Could the Beast have been carrying men who, had they not been shot down and killed, might have changed the course of history? Kennedy’s letter said he was withdrawing U.S. support for the invasion in good faith, so when the letter never came back countersigned, did he assume Castro had duped him? Wouldn’t Kennedy have known the Beast crashed? Considering its importance, wouldn’t he have had a U2 following them?
Based on the secrecy and gravity of the situation, maybe not.
And what about the crates of machine guns? A façade if they were captured? Or an escape route if things went awry?
If only my father were still alive. A career diplomat who’d been to Cuba several times and disagreed with the embargo and the mistakes that led up to it, he might have used this letter to expedite a catharsis between our nations today.
All very interesting, but what could I do with it all these years later?
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