Cuban Death-Lift (9 page)

In black block letters, the life ring boasted the name of the trawler which now sank beneath us:

The first thing you raise approaching Cuba from open sea is a low bank of cumulus clouds appearing, on the curve of horizon, like a sudden Dakota windscape. The sea is a mile deep, purple-black in shafts of clear light, and flying fish lift in coveys before you, skimming cresting waves and luminous sargassum weed like locusts.

It was dawn.

Clouds were fire-laced to the southeast, and, later, the bleak facades of factories and pre-Castro highrise hotels below Havana caught the light in a blaze of geometrics. Mariel Harbor, already demarcation point for more than sixty thousand refugees, was just twenty miles to the west, a surge of dark cliffs.

The Coast Guard had held us up.

The Coasties and Norm Fizer.

Androsa had insisted on notifying her “lawyer” on VHF. I thought it a stupid move on her part—even though she played her role perfectly on the radio, telling Norm she might need “legal counsel” upon her return to Key West. She made no mention of the trawler's name. But still, there was no way of knowing if the Cubans were monitoring the Key West marine operator. And if there was a security leak in some high federal office, it wouldn't take long to realize who Fizer really was.

But I couldn't stop her without tipping my hand, so I said nothing.

We stood by aboard
Sniper,
waiting.

Fizer was on the first Coast Guard chopper out. A small cutter came later, and they sent a watch with pumps to try to save
Storm Nest.
While the Coasties worked, Norm came aboard
Sniper.
He was as businesslike as ever, but the good humor which I'd always known to dominate his personality was nowhere in sight.

He was damn concerned.

And I didn't blame him.

When he got into the salon, sat down with coffee and his briefcase, the woman looked at me irritably.

“Would you mind leaving us alone for a few minutes, Mr. MacMorgan.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Norm nod ever so slightly.

“No problem,” I said. I went above to the flybridge and watched the Coast Guard work. Private boaters in the Keys tend to regard the Coasties as one big pain in the ass. And those that do have reasons—although not very good reasons. When the island isn't wild hauling refugees, the Coast Guard's biggest job is trying to stop the massive flow of drug traffic. It's an impossible job, of course, and they probably nab less than ten percent of the grass, coke, and heroin that comes into Florida. But they're a damn sight more competent than any other branch of the Department of Transportation, and they give it their best shot. And that means stopping and searching a lot of boats, innocent and otherwise. So the innocent boaters who get stopped react, inevitably, like outraged private citizens. They scream and squawk about their legal rights being violated, and demand to know why the Coast Guard doesn't need a warrant to board their vessel. And that just shows them to be the fools they are—ignorant of maritime law and, probably, all other Rules of the Road that that simple ignorance implies.

Of course, they're the first to condemn the Coast Guard or incompetence when they read in the papers about increased drug use in grade schools.

And they're the first to radio for help when their lack of seamanship gets them into big trouble.

So I watched the Coasties work with nothing short of admiration. The sea can be one hell of a desolate place, and I, for one, was glad to have them around.

While one watch worked at resurfacing
Storm Nest,
the cutter sent another crew in an old whaling-style boat to take care of the kid I had punched, and the two corpses. I watched their faces and saw them react to the horror of the man who had had his throat cut.

The face of death isn't all that unusual in their jobs. But I could tell they hadn't seen anything like that.

After an hour or so, Norm came climbing up to the flybridge. I looked behind him to see if Santarun was coming too.

He saw my glance, shook his head, and said, “She's down in the head. I'm supposed to be up here to offer you more money to continue on to Mariel.”

“What?”

Norm shrugged. “She said you were trying to talk her into going back to Key West.”

“Yeah. I was.” I glanced below to make sure she couldn't hear me. “If she's one of the CIA's best people, it's no wonder that this country is having trouble in other parts of the world.”

“I know, I know,” he said wearily. “That was a stupid goddam move, notifying me by radio. The Coast Guard has orders to keep me
and
the CIA abreast of what's going on out here. But I guess she was so shocked to find
Storm Nest
back in American waters that she felt it was a necessary risk.”

I looked over to where the Coast Guard had its big diesel pumps belching water out of the trawler. For the first time I could see part of its name on the stern. They were doing a good job.

“What do you figure happened to those three agents?”

“God knows. I spoke with Santarun about the guy whose throat had been cut. She says she's sure he's not one of the agents—and she knew them all pretty well. But I'm going to have a fingerprint expert check it out just to make sure.”

“So if they did make it to Mariel Harbor and were kidnapped—or just disappeared on their own—who brought
Storm Nest
back to our waters?”

Norm thought for a moment, rubbing his jaw absently. “Well, how about this for one workable scenario: Our agents make it to Cuba, signal us that they're there, then disappear—never mind how or why. The Cubans, naturally, confiscate the trawler. Now there are plenty of soldiers, government employees, whatever, over there just looking for an opportunity to make a break for it. They can't have themselves declared refugees, because that would brand them as traitors and Castro would have them executed. So let's say the guy who got his throat cut was a soldier. He saw the confiscated trawler, decided it was plenty of boat to make the crossing and, when the time was right, he made a break for it. One of the Cuban gunboats shot the boat up some in the process, but he made it to international waters okay.”

“So far so good,” I said. “But then what?”

“Any number of things could have happened. But most probably he got boarded by drug runners, or maybe those two boat hunters in the Mako and”—he made a slicing motion with finger against throat—“they did him in.”

“Chamber of commerce wouldn't like that explanation. The Florida Keys are supposed to be the friendliest islands under the sun.”

Fizer grinned. “I won't tell anybody if you won't.”

“So now what?”

Norm looked surprised. “Why, you go on to Mariel Harbor, that's what. We got one hell of a lucky break, you finding
Storm Nest
before she went down. Now we have to take advantage of it. You have to go over there and find out what in the hell's going on.”

“I wouldn't mind that at all—if you agreed to take Santarun back to Key West with you.”

“No way, Dusky. Absolutely not. She's the bait, and you're our ace in the hole.”

“Norm, she's a pain in the ass! And she's erratic, too—and you know how dangerous that is.”

“Wait a minute, MacMorgan.” He hunched over in his seat, face close to mine. No way I could miss that wry look in his eyes. “The way she tells it, she saved your life back there—”

“Yeah, that's true—”

“So tell me how that's erratic. A waste of energy, maybe—but certainly not erratic.”

“Norm,” I said, “she killed that guy like she's been killing men all her life. But the next minute, she's about to wilt because some guy got his throat cut. A second later, she's screaming at me to move out of the way so she can blow some kid's head off. Now that's not exactly normal.”

Fizer just sat there grinning. “You know what your problem is, MacMorgan?”

“Why spoil your fun? You're going to tell me anyway.”

“That woman doesn't like you. She told me that. She says you're stupid and a smart-ass and a little too bullheaded for your own good. And you just can't stand the idea of any beautiful woman not going all a-flutter over your boyish charm—especially a woman who is giving you orders.”

Stormin' Norman Fizer stood up, signifying—if there was any doubt in my mind—that the discussion was over. He sniffed the wind and said, “Boy, I don't see how you can stand it out here. Too much clean air.” He winked at me. “Now Washington's the place to live. Plenty of gas fumes to build your character. And there's always that poor fool in the White House to watch if there's nothing good on TV.” He stopped in the middle of this discourse, looked at me seriously for a moment, then said, “Dusky, all I'm asking is that you put up with her until this thing is over. It's important. It really is. Telling a big ugly bastard like you this is kind of embarrassing, but it's true—you're the best man I have. Bar none. And I'm counting on you.”

“Fizer,” I said.

“Yeah, Dusky?”

“You're full of shit—you know that, don't you?” He chuckled. “Yeah, I know that. It's one of the many things we have in common. . . .”

 

So it was to be a long night of black heavy sea, starlight on the southern horizon, and the frail bobbing glimmer of running lights in the distance.

Sniper
pushed its way through the darkness with resolve—and the sweet sync of twin diesel engines. I piloted from the main cabin. The woman slept below in the big forward vee-berth. Her conversation with Norm seemed to have steadied her. She was in control again: aloof and uncommunicative. It seemed perfectly natural to her that I should be the one to initiate supper. Cook it. Serve it. And wash the dishes.

So I did.

If there's one thing I learned about any outing with any other human being, it's this: Do more than your share of the monotonous chores, and don't worry about what your companion does or doesn't do. Because getting mad is worse than the chores themselves.

So, I opened two cans of stew, chopped in onion, added garlic, some of that good A&B hot sauce, and served it up with hot rolls.

“What is this stuff?” she had said when I shoved the tin plate across the galley table.

“What's it look like?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Then that's what it is.”

“What about coffee?”

I nodded toward the dented gallon drip pot in its holder above the alcohol stove. “Good idea. I'll need a bunch of it tonight. Coffee's in the locker beneath the sink. I like it strong.”

I took my dinner above to the full controls of the main cabin. While I ate, I switched on the red overhead chart light and checked our position with the 707 digital readout Loran C. The Stream was pushing me a little farther north and east than I thought it would, so I disengaged the little Benmar autopilot, adjusted our course, then clicked the dial, letting the soft hydraulic
whirr
take control of
Sniper.
Then I had sniffed the wind: smelled the dark scent of diesel, of wet rope, fiberglass, of bottom paint, and the good ozone smell of distant lightning blowing across open sea.

But no coffee.

So when I heard the woman finish brushing her teeth and head toward the forward berth, I went below, lit the stove and set coffee to boiling myself. And when the odor filled the boat, sharp and full and strong as whiskey, I poured myself a mug, added honey, and allowed myself the after-dinner luxury of fresh chew of Red Man, spitting over the side.

Busy night in the Florida Strait.

Busiest night in history, probably.

A quarter mile away, I heard the
choppa-choppa
roar of helicopter above the sound of waves and engines, and I turned to watch as the pilot of the chopper swept the sea with its brilliant spotlight, searching for something.

The night sea was green beneath the helicopter, as if illuminated by a lance of meteor, and then I saw the little skiff, running without lights, pounding through the quartering sea and heavily overloaded with refugees.

The helicopter pilot tried to contact the captain of the little skiff on VHF 16, giving his own call letters— “. . . Whiskey, Bravo, Alpha . . .”—but received no answer.

Obviously, the skiff had no radio.

“Stupid bastard,” I said to myself. “The stupid, brave, bastard . . .”

No running lights. No radio. And a boat that was built for skiing on inland lakes—not the deadly Gulf Stream.

No wonder so many had died.

No wonder so many had disappeared without a trace.

I flicked on my Si-Tex radar system, hearing the rhythmic hum of the whirling antenna mounted above and forward. The twelve-inch screen, illuminated arm scanning, was filled with lime-green bleeps, one little explosion after another.

It looked like an armada of small boats in the chaos of retreat.

I kept a close eye on the radar screen as we plowed on through the night. Far, far in the distance, flashing white on the horizon, was the Coast Guard cutter
Dallas,
using its giant strobe lights as a beacon. Before
Sniper,
a flying fish broke the surface dripping green phosphorescence. It crashed back into the sea like a falling star. Off to starboard, broad of the bow, I saw the weak glimmer and roll of more running lights. Quickly, I went below and poured myself another mug of coffee.

It was going to be one long night.

 

The sea changed from the strain of darkness with dawn and in graduations of fresh light. In the east, the blackness lifted in an airy white corona, and the breeze freshened. Water changed from black to rust, then powder blue as the sun drifted over the sea, and the hulls of boats in the distance looked leached and gray in comparison to white Venus, the morning star.