Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

Indeed.

Jack asked, “You waste anybody?”

I nodded.

He thought about that and asked, “Are we protected as combatants under the Geneva Convention and the Rules of Land Warfare?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“That sucks.”

“You got a cigar?”

“Yeah.” He pulled a cedar-wrapped cigar out of his jeans pocket and handed it to me.

I unwrapped it, bit off the tip, and lit up with Jack’s Zippo. Jack had a cigarette in his mouth, and I lit him up and handed him his lighter.

He looked at it and said, “This is my good-luck charm. Kept me alive for a year.”

“No it didn’t.”

“Everybody in my company had a good-luck charm. Mostly crosses, some rabbit’s feet, or an AK bullet that was the bullet that would’ve killed you if you didn’t have it on you. Stuff like that.”

“Does that mean nobody in your company was KIA?”

“Yeah, guys got killed. But if you had a charm, you didn’t think you were gonna get killed.”

“Right. Well, thanks for lending it to me.”

“It worked.”

“Must have.” I downed half the rum.

“What happened with the money?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I got time.”

“We’ll pick it up on the next trip.”

He laughed.

I stood. “Look, if we make it back, this boat’s mine, free and clear. We sell it and split the money.”

“Okay. So you owe me half a million for the trip, half a million for combat pay, and four hundred grand for the Glock, and let’s say another half mil for saving your ass. How much is the boat worth?”

“We’ll figure it out.” I asked, “Hey, did you get laid in Havana?”

“Ten minutes after I left you.” He asked me, “Did you get laid in Havana? Or...” He cocked his head toward the cabin. “... Or did you get fucked?”

I wasn’t sure. “Okay, stay here and look for unfriendly craft.”

I put the rum in the cup holder and went into the cabin where Felipe sat at the helm, wearing a Kevlar vest. I noticed that the windshield had two neat holes in it, to the left of Felipe’s head.

Sara and I exchanged glances, and I thought she was going to go below, but she remained standing.

I said to Felipe, “You did a good job,” meaning you didn’t do an excellent job. In fact, you got a little shaky back there, amigo.

Felipe kept looking out the windshield and nodded.

I sort of ignored Sara and looked at the radar screen. There were no craft in the bay, which was good for starters. I could see the surrounding shorelines on the screen, but not the open water outside the bay, and we wouldn’t see that until we navigated through the archipelago of small islands that ran west from Cayo Guillermo. Then we could see if there were two craft on a course to intercept us.

Felipe seemed to understand the situation and said, “We can transit into the next bay, Buena Vista, and keep the archipelago between us and the ocean for about a hundred and fifty kilometers, then break out into the ocean around Punta Gorda.”

“Do we have a chart?”

“I do. And we have the radar, depth finder, and GPS.”

Life at the edge is all about life-and-death decisions. Pilots, sea captains, combat commanders, deep-sea divers, sky divers, mountain climbers, and other risk-taking crazies know this, and they see it as a challenge. You can get away with a bad decision, but not a bad mistake.

Felipe asked, “What do you think?”

“I think I don’t want to be hemmed in by islands and shorelines. I want to be in open water.”

“But—”

“You’re relieved. Please leave the cabin.”

He looked at me, then stood and went below. He probably needed to pee.

I sat in the skipper’s chair and scanned the dials and gauges, including the fuel, then looked at the radar screen and took a heading that would put us into the Atlantic Ocean in about fifteen minutes.

The bay was choppy, meaning the ocean was going to be rough. I took a drag on the cigar.

Sara said, “I was scared to death.”

“You really did fine.”

“Jack is a brave man.”

And Felipe is...? Well, to be generous, not too many people do well during their baptism of fire. It gets easier each time, and one day you don’t give a shit. I suggested, “Why don’t you go below and get some rest?”

She glanced down the steps to where Felipe was, then asked, “Did you tell Jack what’s in the trunk?”

“No.”

“I’ll show him.”

“Okay.”

She went out to the deck and took a key out of her pocket.

I thought I should be there, so I checked the radar, put the boat on autopilot, and went out to the deck.

I said to Jack, “You remember what Carlos said on this boat about the POWs in Villa Marista prison in Havana?”

“Yeah...”

Sara knelt, opened one of the trunks, and lifted the lid.

Jack stared at the skulls. “What the...?”

“These are those seventeen men. They’re going home, Jack.”

He looked at me, then at Sara, then back at the skulls. He moved closer to the trunk, made the sign of the cross, and said, “Welcome home, boys.” He took a step back and saluted.

I left Jack with Sara and went back to the cabin and took the helm. As we got closer to the ocean, the sea became rougher. The wind was from the southeast and we had a following sea as we headed northwest at twenty-five knots. This was going to be a hell of a ride.

I saw the western tip of Cayo Guillermo on the radar, and a smaller island west of that, and I steered for the passage between the islands, keeping an eye on the depth finder.

It started to rain, and Jack and Sara came into the cabin. Sara, maybe sensing that Jack and I needed a minute, went below.

Jack said, “She told me you met up with Eduardo.”

“Right.”

“He’s a foxy old bastard.”

“So are you.”

“He told me when he left The Maine in Havana Harbor that he had something important he was going to give to you and Sara, and that when I saw it, I’d understand.”

That sounded familiar.

“I guess what I just saw is it.”

“It is.”

“So now we’re gonna go on TV and talk about it.”

“Let’s get to Key West first.”

“Yeah, I guess those... those guys are gonna be used to fuck up the peace talks.”

Sometimes, as someone once said, the dead past should just bury its dead. “I think those men should be identified, and returned to their families for a proper burial.”

“Yeah...”

“What did Eduardo offer you?”

“Don’t matter.”

“Okay.”

“You need help at the helm?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He started down the stairs, then said, “Get us the fuck out of here.”

“Can do.”

The military teaches you about the loneliness of command, and the weight of command that sits on your shoulders and is the combined weight of everyone whose lives you are responsible for. It is the worst feeling in the world. But that’s what you signed on for, and no one ever said it was going to be easy.

I took The Maine through the windswept passage between the islands and I was out into the Atlantic.

I looked at my radar screen and saw only two craft — one was to the west, about ten nautical miles from me, and the other was to the east, only six nautical miles, traveling west.

These could be any ships on the sea, but I was fairly certain I knew who they were, and I knew I was about to earn my pay.

As I watched, both craft, having spotted me on their radar, changed course and began converging on The Maine.

We were in trouble.

The Maine was getting tossed around by the wind and waves, though I was able to keep her on a straight northerly heading toward international waters, which were about ten miles ahead. But no matter how I did the math, the two Guarda Frontera patrol boats were going to intercept us before I crossed that imaginary line — which was imaginary enough for them to ignore.