by Patti Sheehy
He could hardly believe it had come to this. If only that imbecile at the Coast Guard station had followed my orders, this never would’ve happened. That’s always the way, isn’t it? You give some miserable peasant a little power and it goes to his head. Hell, if the Cuban Coast Guard had done what I ordered, we would’ve gotten Mederos before the Americans did. All that babble about triggering an international incident was just stupid talk.
Suddenly, Pino felt hot and sticky. The paddle fan twirled overhead, but the room was closing in on him. He sipped some water, kicked off his upper sheet, and banged his feet against the mattress. How could Mederos elude me for so long? He must’ve had help. He wasn’t smart enough to pull this off alone. But who?
Pino ran through the possibilities in his mind. Manny? Lazo? Lieutenant Brown?
Nah, Brown was too smart for that. He was far too fond of Mederos, but he wouldn’t actually help him escape. That would be treason. He would be executed for such behavior. And he knew it. He’d never risk it. But the other two? They were always palling around with Mederos. Thick as thieves. They’d do anything for each other. That’s the way it is with the Special Forces.
Pino rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand, trying to soothe his pounding headache. What difference does it make now? Any way you look at it, my goose is cooked. Still, it would help to point a finger at someone else when the hard questions are asked.
Suddenly, he remembered the smirk on Jabao’s face the night Mederos vanished into thin air. What did he say? He tried to recall the exact words. “Do you think you are going to find Mederos here? On his own turf? Impossible.” He sighed. Maybe it was inevitable. Fate. Destiny. Whatever you want to call it. Christ. What am I thinking? Something like this wasn’t meant to be. Mederos was a menace, a wart on the face of communism. A cancer that needed to be excised, removed forever.
Pino sat up in his bed. His vision blurred for a moment before the face of Frankie Mederos pirouetted before his eyes. It was as if he were right there in the room with him. “You stinking bastard. You’ve screwed up everything. My whole damn life is ruined because of you.” It barely registered to Pino that he was talking to himself.
The lieutenant slammed his right fist into his left palm, feeling the force of his self-inflicted pain. He stifled a scream, imagining his fist connecting with Mederos’s jaw. He wanted to mangle his face, to bash in his brains.
“I’ll get you, Mederos. I’ll get you, Mederos. I’ll get you, Mederos,” he said in a voice loud enough to be heard through the walls. He repeated the oath like an ancient Buddhist chant sung in a monastery high in the Himalayas. The words looped round and round in his head and on and off his tongue until the morning light wedged itself through the shutters. Then he slowly lifted his body from the bed to face whatever the day might bring.
CHAPTER FOUR
Glancing out his office window, Pino watched as the delegation from Managua drove onto base. Looking starched and official, two captains and three first lieutenants disembarked from their vehicles. They saluted the guards and asked to be taken to Commander Martinez’s office.
Martinez greeted the delegation and gestured for them to be seated. Pitchers of iced tea and coffee sat on a sideboard along with a tray of sliced mangoes and fresh pastries. The commander took his position behind his desk while the other officers settled themselves in wingback chairs.
Captain Carrilles, a man of fifty with a deep, sonorous voice, spoke first. “We are here regarding your call to headquarters about a member of the Special Forces who escaped. We need a full accounting of what happened—step-by-step, starting with you.”
Martinez leaned back in his chair. “I’ll tell you what transpired to the best of my ability.”
“Start at the beginning, Commander.” Martinez nodded to First Lieutenant Rodriquez who extracted a pad from his jacket and began scribbling notes.
“Tell me what you know about Mederos.”
The commander wove his fingers together and placed his hands on his desk. “Mederos was recruited into the force because of his good grades and his previous service to the country.”
“What service? Be specific.”
“He served in the National Literacy Brigade and spent time in the Sierra Maestra helping farmers harvest their crops.”
“Go on,” urged Carrilles.
“He was our best operator—could shoot the missiles like nobody’s business. He hit a ship out at sea during military exercises. Everyone was impressed, including Raúl.”
The captain inhaled, making a wheezing sound through his nose. “Anything else?”
“He trained new recruits.”
“So, he was an asset to the force?”
“Yes. Smart. Good at math. Likeable enough. That’s about it.”
“What about his knowledge of operations?”
“He knew everything someone in his position would know.”
“Besides what he knew as a member of the force, did he possess any special knowledge that might make this situation more dangerous?”
Martinez looked at the ceiling, thinking for a moment before blotches reddened his cheeks.
“What is it, Commander?”
“Now that I think about it, he took inventory of the missiles.”
“Goddamnit! When?”
“Several times.”
“When was the last time?”
“Right before he left.”
“So he knows where our missiles are kept, their number, and kind?”
“He does.”
The captain’s eyes bulged. “This is even more serious than I thought.”
Martinez’s stomach growled, and he cleared his throat. “I know.”
“Did Mederos ever give any indication that he was a counterrevolutionary?”
Martinez thought for a moment. “No. At times he was too outspoken for his own good—a bit of a hothead—but nothing you wouldn’t expect from a man his age. He had some run-ins with Lieutenant Pino over political issues, but he never indicated that he didn’t support the revolution.”
Carrilles nodded. “When did he first disappear?”
“He was supposed to demonstrate the rockets at the Multi-province Military Exercises in Las Villas at the end of November, but he never showed up. He was nowhere to be found.”
“What did you do?”
“We searched the base, of course, and questioned the men, but no one knew anything about the situation.”
“Why didn’t you call headquarters and tell us what was happening?”
“He hadn’t taken his gun, which led us to believe that he wasn’t trying to escape. He had a girlfriend, and we thought he might have family issues. Frankly, it occurred to us that he might’ve gotten her pregnant and needed time to sort it out.”
“This is highly irregular, Commander.”
Martinez took a deep breath. “I know, sir, looking back—”
“Did anyone search for him?”
“Lieutenants Pino and Brown visited his family members, ransacked his home—that sort of thing. But to no avail.”
“Then what?”
“After a couple of weeks, I told Pino that we needed to report the situation to headquarters. But he refused. Said it was a political matter, and he was taking charge of the base.”
“Because?”
“Because Mederos had such deep knowledge of our operation.”
“And you let him?”
“I had no choice.”
“You still could’ve informed headquarters.”
“I could have, if he hadn’t forbidden me to.”
“He forbade you from making a report?”
“Yes, sir. He said he could handle the situation himself, said there was no need to get anyone else involved, including the militia. I think he was afraid of being embarrassed.”
“And you went along with that?”
“There was nothing I could do. He became obsessed with finding Mederos—carried on about it day and night. He wasn’
t thinking clearly. He finally got so worked up he sent the entire force after him.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“He sent the Special Forces out to find him. He said they knew how he thought, and they would be in the best position to bring him in.”
“And you didn’t stand up to him? You were in command, why the hell not?”
“I have to admit I felt powerless in this situation, sir.”
Carrilles shook his head in disbelief. “So powerless you couldn’t pick up a goddamn phone and call headquarters?”
Martinez lowered his chin and remained silent.
The captain shook his head and stared at the commander.
“This is beyond belief! This isn’t bad judgment, Commander. This is lunacy. We are going to get to the bottom of this.”
“Do you want me to ask Lieutenant Pino to join us?”
“Hell, no, Commander. We have plenty of people to talk to before I speak with that idiot. Besides, if I got my hands on him right now, I’d kill him. Get Lieutenant Brown in here. Now”
Brown appeared in Martinez’s office looking solemn and shaken. He had joined the military before Fidel came to power. Much of the land his Haitian family had worked so hard to acquire had been expropriated by the State under the Agrarian Reform Law of 1959. Brown had no time for the communists, but he was smart enough to keep his opinions to himself.
Brown was in charge of operations for the Special Forces unit, while Lieutenant Pino oversaw political affairs at the base. Pino relinquished authority to Brown in military matters, and Brown conceded to Pino in political matters. The two lieutenants disliked each other and vied for power. Pino had declared Frank’s escape a matter of national security, making it a political matter that fell under his authority.
Brown regarded Captain Carrilles warily. He saluted, took a seat near the window, and folded his hands.
The captain shifted in his seat. “Commander Martinez informs me that Pino sent the entire Elite Counterattack Force after Mederos. Is this true?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you say something? Speak up? Call headquarters?”
“I am a soldier, Captain. My first duty is to obey orders. When my two commanding officers agree on a course of action, and that course of action is not to inform headquarters, that’s what I do.”
“So you felt powerless in this situation, Lieutenant?”
“It wasn’t a matter of feeling powerless, Captain.”
“Then what was it, Lieutenant?”
“It was not my duty to go over their heads, sir. I am a soldier, a graduate of the military academy. I obey orders.”
Carrilles gritted his teeth and glared at Brown. He waited a moment to regain control of his emotions. He turned to the officer at his right to make sure notes were being taken.
“Were you at the Coast Guard station when Mederos escaped?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Describe what occurred there.”
“We got word that Mederos was in one of two boats filled with worms headed for the Florida Straits. A Guatemalan freighter had spotted them and had radioed the American Coast Guard to pick them up. The communication was intercepted, and Pino ordered our Coast Guard to go after them.”
“What about the director of the Coast Guard station? Didn’t he have anything to say?”
“He was furious that Pino was trying to take over. He went along with him for a while, but he eventually recalled our boats. Said he didn’t want an international incident on his hands. Evidently, members of his family were aboard one of the boats. I’m sure it influenced his decision. He and Pino argued, and the lieutenant lost. That’s about it.”
Carrilles thought for a minute and then stood up abruptly. The rest of the officers followed suit.
“I’ve heard enough for now,” he said. He turned to Martinez. “I am shocked and appalled at your spinelessness and recklessness in the midst of a critical situation. What kind of weak sister are you to allow this to happen under your command?” He practically spit out the words. “You are the most pitiful excuse for a commander I’ve ever seen.”
“I—”
“Shut the hell up, Commander. I’ve heard enough nonsense. As of now, you and your officers are under house arrest. Members of our delegation will take over the base until your replacements are appointed. Meanwhile, we will escort Pino to Managua where he will be held under guard until arrangements are made for his trial.
“Your actions could prove devastating to our great nation. Our delegation will investigate further to make sure no conspiracy was involved in this worm’s escape. If we find evidence to that effect, you—and anyone else involved—will be tried for treason. As you know, the penalty for treason is death. Meanwhile, you are relieved of your command.”
Carrilles turned to Brown. “I respect that you were following orders, Lieutenant. But for the time being, you are also relieved of your command. Perhaps, with further instruction, you can be salvaged to better serve the revolution. Time will tell. You are to report to the military academy for additional leadership training.”
The captain turned to his first lieutenant and said, “I will need to speak to all members of the Special Forces regarding this matter. Get me a list of men, and schedule interviews as soon as possible.”
The delegation saluted and walked out of the office, leaving Brown and Martinez ashen and spent.
CHAPTER FIVE
After bidding farewell to the US Coast Guard, Frank Mederos and his party climbed aboard a bus headed to Freedom House, an agency that provided immigration, health, and settlement services. The agency, which served as a sort of refugee hotel, was located near the airport in Miami.
The group was a motley crew, their hunger for life, liberty, and safety now supplanted by their urgent need for a hot shower, dry clothes, and a decent meal.
The party numbered twenty-nine: two women awaiting childbirth, several traumatized children, adults of all ages, including Frank and his Uncle Luis. It took them a while to regain their land legs, the undulant motion of the sea clinging to their limbs like burrs to cotton.
They had been fed and issued blankets aboard the Guatemalan freighter Gran Lempira. Now Dixie cups filled with water were distributed and quickly consumed. Suffering from dehydration, many of the refugees urgently requested refills. They gulped down water as if they’d never had a drink.
Although exhausted and bedraggled, the group was electric with the talk of their adventure. To Frank’s chagrin, his Uncle Luis was carrying on as if he were the hero of the voyage when, at the height of their crossing, he had begged Frank to take the boat back to Cuba to avoid what he thought would be certain death at sea.
Frank had ignored his urgings, rendering Luis striated with fear and momentarily speechless. But Frank understood his feelings. He was familiar with the kind of cold terror that could sluice through your body so rapidly it obliterated rational thought. He had tasted it, faced it, overcome it.
When Frank was younger, he regarded his uncle as a brave, loyal man. It was why he had asked Luis to hide him from the authorities—no small matter. If caught, Luis could’ve been sent “to the wall”—shot for harboring a fugitive. Yet he and his wife, Rosa, welcomed Frank into their home without reservation or complaint.
Their hospitality had meant more to Frank than a roof over his head—it had meant his life. Rosa had washed his clothes, slaked his thirst, and fed his body. What’s more, she had put her life and the lives of her two daughters at risk. For a mother, this was remarkable. No wonder she’d been a bundle of nerves.
Although his uncle was unemployed and strapped for cash, Frank was surprised when he asked to go to America with him. Luis had been a truck driver for Coca-Cola and had lost his job when Fidel nationalized the company. Coke absconded with its secret formula, and the company that replaced it produced a product that few people wanted to drink.
Now, Frank watched Luis effusively recount their experience as
if he were a major player in their success. Frank looked at him askance. This was a real eye-opener for him. For the first time in his life he got the impression that his uncle was not the man he thought him to be.
Amid the commotion and babble, Frank’s thoughts turned to Magda. In the six months since he’d seen her, he missed her like an amputee misses a leg. His longing had reached a fever pitch. He wanted the comfort of her familiarity, the sureness of her unbidden support, the normalcy of being with her and doing something as simple as taking a walk. He planned to call her at the first possible moment to reassure her that he had escaped Cuba alive and to hear the excitement in her voice when she heard the news.
He needed her touch like he needed water. He needed her laughter like he needed air. He had survived a dangerous and circuitous path to reach her, and he was on the cusp of realizing his dream. What more could a man want?
When the group arrived at Freedom House, they were welcomed as heroes, congratulated on their success, and praised for their courage.
Once the excitement subsided, they were issued clean clothes, soap, shampoo, a toothbrush, a razor, and a fine-toothed comb. Frank grabbed his toiletries and hastened to the men’s room.
He glanced in the mirror and studied his face, surprised at his reflection. His skin was blistered from the sun and caked with brine. His hair was askew, matted and curled with oceanic debris. Bits of seaweed clung to his beard, and fine red lines netted the whites of his eyes like ivy crossing a wall. He ran his tongue over his lips and tasted salt, the essence of the sea that was so much a part of him.
His hands gripped the sink, as tremulous as wind chimes. He lowered his head, hoping the tide of adrenaline would stop flooding his bloodstream. He wondered what toll it had taken on his body during five months of running from the authorities, five months of crushing fear, five months of knowing he’d put his own life and the lives of his loved ones in mortal danger.
But he was young and strong. At nineteen he considered himself almost invincible. He nudged the thought from his mind. This was not a time for morbid musings, but rather a time for celebration.