Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

The Taliban took the higher ground at the base of the mountain, and they’d also taken up positions in two parallel wadis to complete the horseshoe that we’d run into.

We formed a tight perimeter and returned the fire while the Bradleys continued supporting fire from the road about four hundred meters away.

The bad guys had the manpower, but we had the firepower, and it was sort of a standoff until a group of Taliban moved out of one of the brush-filled wadis and turned the horseshoe into a box. We were surrounded and starting to run low on ammunition.

My sergeant, a big black guy named Simpson, said to me, “You make life interesting, Lieutenant.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

The closest wadi was about a hundred meters to our west, and the Taliban were strung out in the dry streambed, popping off bursts of AK-47 fire that mostly ricocheted off the rockfalls around us.

We were trapped, but relatively safe where we were, and we could have waited for the gunships, but in a situation like this, the Taliban sometimes start moving and maneuvering close to you, so the gunships can’t fire their stuff without the risk of hitting friendlies.

So, when your ass is in a sling, you do the unexpected. I got on the horn and ordered the Bradleys to direct all their fire on the wadi to the west, then lift their fire after three minutes, and shift it to targets of opportunity.

I assembled the two squads that were with me, waited out the barrage on the wadi, then charged toward it just as the Bradleys lifted their fire.

We reached the dry streambed within a minute and found it unoccupied except for a dozen dead and wounded Taliban lying in the dried mud.

Their dead are often booby-trapped, and the wounded are ready to pull the pin on a grenade or pull a gun as soon as you come near them. So Sergeant Simpson and I drew our Glocks and did the dirty work while the rest of the men took up defensive positions.

The last wounded Taliban I came to was staring at me, his eyes following me as I moved closer to him. His legs were chewed up, like a 25mm round had exploded at his feet. He never looked at the gun in my hand, but kept staring into my eyes. I kept eye contact with him, and I hesitated, because maybe it would be good to take a prisoner for Intel. The wounded guy raised his arms and clasped his hands in prayer. In the distance I heard the sound of choppers coming toward us.

I lowered my gun and moved toward the Taliban, who suddenly reached out and grabbed my ankle. I didn’t know if it was a sign of thanks, or an act of aggression, and I fired a 9mm round into his face. I still don’t know what he was trying to tell me.

I was awakened by a foot rubbing against mine, and someone was saying, “Good morning.”

I felt sweat on my face. It was still dark outside. She asked, “Did you sleep well?”

“No.” I asked, “Would you like coffee?”

She yawned. “Let’s get back to our hotel.”

But we lay there, then she said, “I promised Carlos I wouldn’t get emotionally involved with you... wouldn’t have sex with you. And now we’ve had sex three times.”

“Three?”

“You’re going to do it again, aren’t you?”

Funny. I got on top of her and we made love again.

Afterward, we lay side by side, and she took my hand. “I have a confession to make.”

“There’s a church down the street.”

“Listen. I do have a... sort of boyfriend... but...”

That didn’t completely surprise me. “That’s for you to work out.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“I have more pressing issues to worry about.”

“I think you’re angry.”

“I’m not.”

“Are you jealous?”

“No. Do you think he’d be jealous?”

“He’s Cuban. They get jealous.”

“Just explain that it was part of the job.”

“I’ll... just explain that it’s over.”

“That’s your call.”

“Can you at least give me some encouragement?”

“What do you want me to say?”

She didn’t reply, so I said, “I like you very much.”

“And I like you very much.” She squeezed my hand.

Well, nobody was using the four-letter L-word. But it was out there. And I knew from the Army that hurried wartime romances lead to what seems like love, and half the men and women I knew in the Army who returned to duty from a pre-deployment leave had gotten married — or engaged, as I did. Then when you returned from overseas, reality set in.

Sara asked, “Do you have a confession to make?”

“I’m unattached, as I said.”

“But you have women.”

“Not for awhile.”

“Why have you never married?”

I sat up in bed and glanced at the bedside clock: 5:34.

“Mac?”

“I’ve had a complicated life.”

“Engaged?”

“Once. How about you?”

She sat up. “I’ve never found the right man.”

I didn’t reply.

“Would you like to change the subject?”

“I would.”

She turned on the lamp. “What would you like to talk about?”

Coffee. But there was something else on my mind. “While we’re being honest with each other, I want you to tell me if there’s more to this trip to Cuba than I’ve been told.”

“What do you mean?”

“More than the money.”

She hesitated a second, then replied, “There is.” She added, “You’re very smart.”

“Okay. And?”

“And I will tell you when you need to know.”

“I need to know now.”

“The less you know now, the better.”

“No, the more I know—”

“What you don’t know you can’t reveal under torture.”

That was a little jarring at 5:30. I almost wanted to return to the subject of love. “Okay, but—”

“I’ll tell you this — you’ll be very pleased with the other reason we’re here. And that’s all I’m saying.”

“Okay... breakfast in bed?”

“We need to get back to our hotel.” She got out of bed, went to the bar, and opened her shoulder bag, pulling out a wad of pesos.

I said, “That’s okay. No charge.”

She smiled and took out a piece of paper and gave it to me. “I made a photocopy of the map in the hotel business office.” She looked at me. “If anything happens to me, you should be able to follow that to the cave.”

I turned on my lamp and glanced at the map, which was like a child’s drawing of a pirate treasure map. But the directions written on the bottom in English seemed clear if you started in the right place. The map was titled, “A great hike through the Camagüey Mountains.”

“As I told you, I’ve altered it slightly, and I’ll explain it to you later.”

“Okay.”

“Also, our Havana contact will give us a good road map for Camagüey. I assume that as a former infantry officer, you have good map skills.”

“That’s what I got paid for.”

“Good. I trust you, Mac. I know you’ll do the right thing, even without me.”

I looked at her, standing naked in the lamplight. “I will do my best.”

I got out of bed, went to the window, and looked out at the starlit Straits of Florida. Sara came up behind me, wrapped her arms around my chest, and put her chin on my shoulder. She said, “Just as I saw the green flash, I can also see our boat, sailing across the water, with Jack and Felipe in the cabin, and you and I sitting on the bow, looking at the horizon as Key West comes into sight. The sun is coming up. Can you see that?”

I could, and I couldn’t. But I said, “Yes, I can see that.”

“Our mission is blessed. You are blessed. Just as you returned twice from Afghanistan, you will return home from Cuba.”

Unless God was getting tired of covering my ass.

Sara ran a comb through her damp hair and put on a little lip gloss. Low maintenance. We got dressed, left the room, and rode down in the elevator. I dropped the key off at the desk, and the same clerk glanced at Sara, then asked me, “How was your stay, señor?”