Authors: Randy Striker
Cuban Death-Lift (21 page)
“So now you plan to force the woman to talk.”
“There is hardly need to
force
her,
Capitán.
” He made a face as if offended at being so misunderstood. “Señorita Santarun has, of her own free will, defected.” He handed me the paper he had been holding, ignoring the look of shock that I felt slip across my face. “If she could have been forced into telling us the secrets of your government, would we even bother with a formal paper of defection from her? No, certainly not. As you can see, the letter is signed in her own handâand of her own free will. But as you probably know, Capitán MacMorgan, she is a stubborn woman, and she will not begin to truly cooperate with us until you are safely back in the United States.” He checked his watch. “Soon, our patrol boats will escort you out of Mariel Harbor. Once you reach Key West, you are to radio a message on VHF 11. You are to give the name of a book you gave your lover, Señorita Santarun. There is no way we could know what book that might be, and so the correct title will be proof to the señorita that she is not being tricked. You will send the message once every fifteen minutes over the period of an hour to make sure we receive it clearly.” Captain Lobo checked his watch again. “I suggest you hurry, Capitán MacMorgan. If you are not back in Key West in . . . twenty-four hours? . . . then we must assume something has happened to you. And that will make the señorita useless to us, so we will kill her. Until then, she rests at a very pleasant cottage at the Naval Academy, awaiting
your
cooperation.”
force
her,
Capitán.
” He made a face as if offended at being so misunderstood. “Señorita Santarun has, of her own free will, defected.” He handed me the paper he had been holding, ignoring the look of shock that I felt slip across my face. “If she could have been forced into telling us the secrets of your government, would we even bother with a formal paper of defection from her? No, certainly not. As you can see, the letter is signed in her own handâand of her own free will. But as you probably know, Capitán MacMorgan, she is a stubborn woman, and she will not begin to truly cooperate with us until you are safely back in the United States.” He checked his watch. “Soon, our patrol boats will escort you out of Mariel Harbor. Once you reach Key West, you are to radio a message on VHF 11. You are to give the name of a book you gave your lover, Señorita Santarun. There is no way we could know what book that might be, and so the correct title will be proof to the señorita that she is not being tricked. You will send the message once every fifteen minutes over the period of an hour to make sure we receive it clearly.” Captain Lobo checked his watch again. “I suggest you hurry, Capitán MacMorgan. If you are not back in Key West in . . . twenty-four hours? . . . then we must assume something has happened to you. And that will make the señorita useless to us, so we will kill her. Until then, she rests at a very pleasant cottage at the Naval Academy, awaiting
your
cooperation.”
He turned and left without another word.
So do your job, MacMorgan. The woman was the bait and the tiger finally got her, so hustle on back to that gaudy little pirate town at the end of A1A and report to Norm Fizer. It's what everyone wants you to doâfrom Castro's gun-loving puppets to your own dear government. Sure, Androsa Santarun was something special, but so what? And Westy O'Davis was one of those rare guys you want to count as a friend for a lifetime, but they had shot him dead and there's nothing you can do. So carry out your orders, MacMorgan, because that's what you're supposed to do, and you're a man who has always and forever followed orders . . . right?
Wrong. . . .
Somewhere in the Havana night would be a radar antenna whirling attentively, tracking me on a thirty-to-forty-mile scan. Not all that tough to beat it, really. The drug runners have it down to a science. And once upon a time I had studied the methods and ploys of drug runners in the same way an osprey studies the convolutions of schooling mullet.
One of the antiquated gunboats led me out of the harbor. It was three a.m. by the green glow of my Rolex watch. I steered from the main controls, head aching slightly, red chart light letting my eyes stroll across the map of mainland Cuba, memorizing exactly what I must do. For the hell of it, I took the overhead mike in hand and tried to raise the Key West marine operator. It wouldn't hurt to try to get a double-edged message to Norm Fizer. But the Cubans jammed me, as I knew they would.
Four miles out to sea, the lights of Havana began to fall away, lifting, holding, and finally sinking in my wake. Starry night, two days past the quarter moon. Florida Straits were still busy with frail red and green glow of distant running lights. The Freedom Flotilla was still going full tilt, hell-bent on carrying as many refugees to the freedom dream of America before the two big C'sâCastro and Carterâgot together and decided too many people were dying in that torturous expanse of water and, besides, neither of them was benefiting from it as they thought they would.
Plenty of American boats still making the crossing to Mariel Harbor. And that was good. I needed the boats for cover.
About twenty miles out, close to international waters, the gunboat suddenly backed engines and turned around. For one wild second, I thought they had stopped to sweep their guns across
Sniper;
stopped to send me to the bottom right there without a trace. But they hesitated only long enough to pick up a course back to Mariel Harbor, then rumbled away into the black wash of night sea. I didn't wait around to watch. I shoved both throttles ahead full bore, feeling the burst of acceleration pull my head back. The Si-Tex radar screen, bolted above the cabin controls, was throwing small bursts of green light across the grid, and I headed for the biggest pack of boats I could find at a crashing thirty-four knots.
Sniper;
stopped to send me to the bottom right there without a trace. But they hesitated only long enough to pick up a course back to Mariel Harbor, then rumbled away into the black wash of night sea. I didn't wait around to watch. I shoved both throttles ahead full bore, feeling the burst of acceleration pull my head back. The Si-Tex radar screen, bolted above the cabin controls, was throwing small bursts of green light across the grid, and I headed for the biggest pack of boats I could find at a crashing thirty-four knots.
I ran an unyielding rum line for almost twenty minutes before I picked up the first white mastlights of the small flotilla bound for Mariel, starlike on the horizon. I grabbed the Bushnell zoom scope and got a rolling look at them: three cruisers and a ragged trawler. I switched off my running lights and swept out around them, keeping my distance. And when I had a clean angle, I flipped the running lights back on and approached from their stern. I was probably well out of Havana radar range. But even if I wasn't, it wouldn't matter. On a grid big enough to scan forty miles, they would lose me among the indistinct blur of the other boats.
So I pulled throttles back and stayed tight astern of the four other boats. They were making about fourteen knots, and when I had my speed adjusted to theirs, I locked the Benmar autopilot in temporarily while I got a cold Hatuey beer from the cooler and added a healthy pinch of Copenhagen between lip and gum. I felt the old anticipation come over me; the good feeling of the hunter on the track of the deserving prey. In about fourteen hours, the Castro gun goons were going to get the surprise of their lives. Their job was to stop unauthorized Cubans from getting out of Marielâand they wouldn't be expecting a blind-sided attack from someone trying to get
in.
Still, I had to have some luck. The narrow untended tidal creek the chart showed to be west of Mariel Harbor would have to be deep enough for me to get in. And there would have to be cover enough for me to camouflage
Sniper.
And, also, the Cubans would have to fall for the drug runners' radio-distress ploy that would explain my final disappearance. But I had already had the best kind of luck. Radio Havana had, according to Lobo, reported an attack on Mariel by a band of anti-Castro Cubans. They would have no choice but to explain the second attack in the same way. . . .
in.
Still, I had to have some luck. The narrow untended tidal creek the chart showed to be west of Mariel Harbor would have to be deep enough for me to get in. And there would have to be cover enough for me to camouflage
Sniper.
And, also, the Cubans would have to fall for the drug runners' radio-distress ploy that would explain my final disappearance. But I had already had the best kind of luck. Radio Havana had, according to Lobo, reported an attack on Mariel by a band of anti-Castro Cubans. They would have no choice but to explain the second attack in the same way. . . .
Â
The tidal river was deep enough. But not by much.
I had pulled away from my screen of boats an hour before sunrise three miles offshore. It's not true about it being always darkest before the dawn. Not on the open ocean, anyway. There was no sun, but the sea took on a pearly luminescence. The water changed from black to turquoiseâa turquoise of such intensity that it seemed as if it would discolor the black hull of my cruiser. The wind freshened, blowing waves across the bow. And the rolling expanse of sea, wind, and waves seemed energized by an incandescence of its own, as if the radiance had been accumulated over a million days beneath the Gulf Stream sun.
Below Mariel Harbor, it was a wilderness coast: cliffs topped by banyan trees and yellow bamboo. A rivulet toppled down one hillside, ending in a waterfall that sprayed down onto the rocks and sea below. Wind brought the scent of the mainland over the water, and it smelled of dank earth and frangipani and jasmine. The river I was seeking would be somewhere dead ahead, beyond the reef, and it was time for me to make my disappearance official. To the people in the radar room, I would be some unknown vessel hopelessly off course, searching for Mariel. Now the unknown vessel would sink.
I took the mike in my hand and, ridiculously, tried to disguise my voiceâas if anyone in Cuba would know my voice:
Mayday, mayday, this is the power vessel
Assail
. . . we've hit some coral . . . boat's going down fast . . . engine's on fire . . . need assistance immediately. . . .
Assail
. . . we've hit some coral . . . boat's going down fast . . . engine's on fire . . . need assistance immediately. . . .
I repeated the message three times, adding bogus loran coordinatesâfour miles from my true positionâto the name of the imaginary vessel. After the last transmission, my voice straining with a quality of panic, I mimicked a loud
woofing
explosion, then let the set go dead.
woofing
explosion, then let the set go dead.
Good luck, Cubans. You rarely answer an American distress call anywayâno matter where it's at. But if you do come in search of the damaged
Assail
you'll find nothing. And that will make us both happy. . . .
Assail
you'll find nothing. And that will make us both happy. . . .
Quickly I hustled up to the flybridge. The reef lay ahead, and I wanted some visual altitude to run it. The sun was a fiery haze in the east now, and the coral stood out black below transparent waves and green sea. I powered along the seaward edge of it, looking for the current thrust from the river which I knew would create a natural channel through the reef.
And there it was: a snaking path of olive water through the coralheads and staghorn which led to calm water beyond the reef, and then a narrow entranceway of water guarded by mainland buttonwood and black mangrove treesâthe tidal river.
I considered not marking the channel with the plastic milk bottles weighted with lead I had madeâbut then decided I had to take the risk of their being noticed. I would be leaving by darkness, probably, and ramming
Sniper
up onto the reef would leave me stranded in Cuba.
Sniper
up onto the reef would leave me stranded in Cuba.
And I couldn't afford to be stranded.
Not after what I had planned.
So I dropped three markers: one at the seaward exit, one at the narrowest bight, and the last at the river entrance to the reef. And then I nosed
Sniper
up the river at dead slow, sticking to the concave banks where the current would have dug out the deepest channel. It was one of those mangrove rivers with a vegetable bottom of muck and leaves. Heat came off the water, and limbs from mangroves slid across the hull of
Sniper
as we made our way. There was a dank and eerie silence about the narrow river interrupted only by the whine of mosquitoes and the occasional chatter of a kingfisher, and when my props kicked up mud, a visceral odor of sludge erupted behind.
Sniper
up the river at dead slow, sticking to the concave banks where the current would have dug out the deepest channel. It was one of those mangrove rivers with a vegetable bottom of muck and leaves. Heat came off the water, and limbs from mangroves slid across the hull of
Sniper
as we made our way. There was a dank and eerie silence about the narrow river interrupted only by the whine of mosquitoes and the occasional chatter of a kingfisher, and when my props kicked up mud, a visceral odor of sludge erupted behind.
The river deepened, narrowed even more, then branched into a crooked Y. I nosed up one branch, touched engines into reverse, then backed two boat lengths down the narrowest creek and switched off the engines.
I had a lot of work to do. I cut mangroves and covered those parts of
Sniper
which might be seen from the air, then went below and got the fake battery from the forward bilge.
Sniper
which might be seen from the air, then went below and got the fake battery from the forward bilge.
“Until then, she's resting in a pleasant cottage at the Naval Academy,” Lobo had told me.
The Naval Academyâthe stone castle on the cliff above Mariel Harbor. Big mistake, Lobo. You should have never mentioned it.
I uncapped the battery and, once again, inventoried its deadly contents.
Plenty enough to do the job.
I was sweating from my work with the machete cutting tree limbs, so I grabbed a towel and wiped at my face while I went through my drawers beneath the master berth, looking for pencil and paper. I knew what I wanted to do: jerk everything I could remember about the terrain around the Naval Academy to the mental surface, then make a detailed map. Circles would represent guard outposts. X's would mark where I would put the explosives. I wanted to work out every possible means of escape, including the possible use of another tidal creek that branched off a finger of Mariel Harbor and, according to the chart, dead-ended only a mile or two from the mangrove river where I now waited. Repetition and concentrationâI wanted to sear every alternative into my mind so completely that I wouldn't have to take time to think. Because, in the circumstances of war, makeshift planning can leave you very dead indeed.
So it was while rummaging through the drawers looking for paper and pen that I found it.
The book I had given Androsa Santarun to read: H. M. Tomlinson's
The Sea and the Jungle.
It was placed on top of a pile of miscellaneous gear, face down, spine crinkled, opened to her place. The instant irritation I felt at seeing so rare a book treated so badly was replaced by the immediate realization that I had returned the book once to the ammo-box library.
The Sea and the Jungle.
It was placed on top of a pile of miscellaneous gear, face down, spine crinkled, opened to her place. The instant irritation I felt at seeing so rare a book treated so badly was replaced by the immediate realization that I had returned the book once to the ammo-box library.
But was it before Androsa left
Sniper
or after?
Sniper
or after?
I couldn't remember.
I picked it up carefully, closed it. But there was something wrong. The book closedâbut not properly; just the slightest spring of foreign matter between pages. I leafed through the fine old volume and found it: a letter to me from Androsa. I remembered her that day atop the flybridge writing and reading, using my stomach as a pillow. So she had been writing to meâand had used the strange code message I was to send from Key West to tell me where to look.
I took out the letter, unfolded it, and read it quickly. Then I dropped the note on the bunk, went to the icebox, and got a beer, because I needed it. And then I read the letter again, still in shocked disbelief.
Â
My Dearest Duskyâ
I write this now because I know they will be calling for me soon and that I will leave you and never see you again. In a way, leaving you will be the hardest thing, but it is something I must do. The last two years of my life have been very dark years, Dusky. And for a short time you brought some light to them. I can't allow myself to think how it might be if we could be together longer, because it is impossible, and there is nothing sadder than hoping for the impossible. You think you know about me, Dusky, but you don't. But I know about you. This morning while you made breakfast I found a piece of torn paper. It was just a corner you had overlooked, but it was enough to tell me it was a CIA bio sheet, and I know now what I had suspectedâthat you are more than a charterboat captain. For some reason, I was disappointed to find it. But I know that you were sent to help in some way, but you cannot help. I mentioned that I had a half brother who was killed by Castro's men. That is true, Dusky, but I did not know until we found that sinking boat,
Storm Nest.
The man who had been murdered so horribly was my own dear, dear Alvino. His father, who is a good man, married my mother and adopted me. I loved my brother very much, so you can imagine what a horrible decision it was for me when, two years ago, a General Halcón approached me upon Castro's arrival in New York and, in secrecy, told me that if I did not help him pose as a double agent my brother would be killed. So for these last twenty-four months I have been, in truth, a double agent working against America, the country I love. I do not know how Alvino got the boat and tried to make his escape, but I do know it was the Cubans who trailed him and murdered him. The agent who died in my arms told me. Before his escape, Alvino had warned them of Halcón, and the agent had found out about my arrival and was coming to warn me when they killed him. That is when I realized just what a foul creature I have become, Dusky, because it was I who told the Cubans of the plot to kill Castro. I sentenced those three men to death, and now that my dear brother is gone I can atone for it. Or at least try to. You must not worry about me, Dusky. It is almost funnyâthe thing I hate so much will not allow them to kill me. . . .”
Storm Nest.
The man who had been murdered so horribly was my own dear, dear Alvino. His father, who is a good man, married my mother and adopted me. I loved my brother very much, so you can imagine what a horrible decision it was for me when, two years ago, a General Halcón approached me upon Castro's arrival in New York and, in secrecy, told me that if I did not help him pose as a double agent my brother would be killed. So for these last twenty-four months I have been, in truth, a double agent working against America, the country I love. I do not know how Alvino got the boat and tried to make his escape, but I do know it was the Cubans who trailed him and murdered him. The agent who died in my arms told me. Before his escape, Alvino had warned them of Halcón, and the agent had found out about my arrival and was coming to warn me when they killed him. That is when I realized just what a foul creature I have become, Dusky, because it was I who told the Cubans of the plot to kill Castro. I sentenced those three men to death, and now that my dear brother is gone I can atone for it. Or at least try to. You must not worry about me, Dusky. It is almost funnyâthe thing I hate so much will not allow them to kill me. . . .”
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