Stalked: The Boy Who Said No

by Patti Sheehy

  “I understand from Commander Martinez that you declared a state of emergency at the base. Is that correct, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Under what authority?”

  Pino jutted his chin. “Under my own authority.”

  “How so, Lieutenant?”

  “Mederos was not a communist. He had no loyalty to the Party. When it became clear to me that he had escaped, it became a political situation. I had no idea what Mederos would do, what information he would disclose, and to whom. There was too much at stake. As you know, in cases of political emergencies, the political commissioner takes charge.” He hesitated for emphasis. “Under such circumstances, I take command.”

  Enchemendia shook his head sternly. “For the record, Lieutenant, the fact that Mederos escaped did not give you the authority to take over anything. If you had the God-given sense to call headquarters and discuss this situation with us, we may have offered a very different solution—one that might’ve worked.”

  Pino surveyed his shoes before answering, “Yes, sir.”

  “Commander Martinez also states that he repeatedly asked you to inform the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution, the army, and the militia regarding Mederos’s escape and you refused. True, Lieutenant?”

  Pino’s chest heaved with panic. He sat as rigid as an ice sculpture, trying to ignore the fact that his heart had fallen into an irregular rhythm. He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated, afraid his voice would betray his emotions. “I—”

  “It’s a simple question, Lieutenant. Yes or no?”

  Pino marshaled his breath, bit his lower lip, and mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

  “I assume you knew you were disobeying standard military procedure.”

  Pino calculated his response. He considered defending himself, but the tone of the questioning made him think better of it. Finally, he said, “Yes, sir.”

  Enchemendia looked down for a moment and rubbed his forehead. When he looked up, his eyes blazed with fury. He fixed Pino in his line of sight.

  “How the hell did you plan to find Mederos then?”

  Pino lifted his chin, convinced of the appropriateness of his actions.

  When he spoke his voice was filled with righteous indignation. “I sent the force after him, sir.”

  “So we understand,” bellowed the captain. “Commander Martinez informed us of this. So did other officers. And, I might add, none of them came to your defense.”

  “I—”

  “Shut up, Lieutenant. You are beyond arrogant. If you’ll pardon the expression, I’m beginning to think you are fucking crazy. Why the hell did you do this? I want to hear it from your own lips.”

  Pino exhaled, his eyes radiating disdain. “Without a doubt, it was the right course of action. I knew members of the force would understand how the worm thinks. They’d be in the best position to bring him in. I figured together we could outsmart him, that it would be a sure thing.”

  “Was it, Lieutenant?”

  Pino lowered his head and answered sheepishly, “No, sir.”

  Vasquez studied Pino. He had been listening closely. It was time for him to speak his mind. A moment passed before he let loose with a storm of words. “Christ almighty, Lieutenant! Don’t you know the mission of the force?”

  Pino knew this was a rhetorical question. He was prepared for a rant. He sat like a sphinx while Vasquez continued. “The force is here to protect our homeland, to protect our citizens from imperialist aggression. To be an example of the best, the very best that the Cuban military has to offer. It’s not your goddamn plaything. Soldiers are not here to roam the streets searching for one stinking worm who takes it into his warped little brain to chase after his girlfriend in America. That’s someone else’s job. It’s not the job of the force.”

  “But—”

  “But what, Lieutenant?”

  Pino knuckled the beveled edge of the table. Beneath his hard exterior, he felt exposed, vulnerable. His lips crumpled into a thin wavy line.

  “I thought—”

  “You thought, Lieutenant? I don’t think you thought at all. Rules and regulations are written for a reason. They are the very foundation of our military might. Who the hell do you think you are to ignore them?”

  Suddenly, the air became still, stagnant as pond scum. A motor hummed in the distance and the fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Pino bit his lip as a rictus of pain tugged at the left corner of his mouth.

  “I know how men like you think, Lieutenant, and if you thought about anything, it was about saving your own goddamn ass.”

  Vasquez sat back in his chair, making no effort to disguise his disgust. He gestured to First Lieutenant Torres, who served as a political investigator, to continue the questioning.

  Torres gave Pino a long, penetrating look before beginning his interrogation.

  “How long was Mederos on the run, Lieutenant?”

  Pino stared at the ceiling fan, thinking. “About five months.”

  The members of the tribunal exchanged meaningful glances.

  “Five fucking months?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And how many men did you have chasing him, Lieutenant?”

  “It depended. Some days more than others.”

  “Don’t beat around the bush, goddamnit! How many of our fine soldiers spent their precious time chasing Mederos around Havana?”

  “Upward of three hundred.” Pino’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “You’re telling me you sent three hundred members of the Special Forces—three hundred of our top men—on a mission to apprehend a single soldier, and you couldn’t manage to catch him? What kind of fool are you, Lieutenant?”

  Torres enunciated the word fool so it unwound like a rubber hose. The epithet brought a vivid image of his father to Pino’s mind. How many times did he call me a fool while I was growing up? How dare Torres call me that! Pino shifted his body in his chair, but remained silent.

  Torres continued, “Even if you thought that engaging the force was the right course of action, Lieutenant, why did you continue for so long without informing the authorities?”

  “For the sake of the revolution, I believed it was my duty to bring the worm in. I figured he was still in the country, hiding with his relatives. At one point we were right on his tracks. I even—”

  Pino stopped short, realizing what he was about to say would make him appear even more incompetent.

  “You even what, Lieutenant?”

  Pino tightened his lips. Sensing his defiance, Torres raised a fist.

  “You are going to tell me, goddamnit!”

  Pino exhaled and attempted a feeble smile as he computed the situation. There was no point in covering up his actions. It would all come out eventually.

  “I even had him at gunpoint. He was standing right in front of me. I took several shots at him, but Mederos was so slippery he bolted and ran through the sisal. My men searched every tree, every bush to flush him out. But he was nowhere to be found.” Pino hesitated. “I lie awake at night trying to figure out where he went. He disappeared into thin air.”

  “You make him sound like Houdini.”

  Pino sighed. “What can I say, sir?”

  Vasquez closed his eyes as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He held up his hand to interrupt Torres. Torres nodded for him to proceed.

  Vasquez sipped some water before beginning. “So you had this man in your line of sight, he outmaneuvers you and then, with hundreds of well-trained soldiers at your disposal, you fail to bring him in. Is that what I’m hearing, Lieutenant?”

  Tension bloated the air like water filling a balloon. Pino wrinkled his nose before replying, “Yes, sir.”

  Vasquez sat for a moment, mesmerized. He shook his head in dismay. When he spoke, his voice resounded with authority. “What you have done not only violates fundamental military procedures of the Revolutionary Armed Forces, it makes a mockery of the basic tenets of Marxism. You
of all people should know that. As a communist you do not act as an individual. You do not put the needs of yourself above those of the Party. As political commissioner you have been drilled and re-drilled on these concepts. My conclusion is you either failed to learn your lessons, or you chose to ignore them.”

  Pino started to speak.

  “Shut up, Lieutenant. You are not to utter another word.” Vasquez glanced down and shuffled some papers. “According to your own admission, you mobilized the unit in total disregard for its safety and the safety of the Cuban people.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As a result of your pride and belligerence, the Americans probably know every aspect of our defenses: how many missiles we have, where we store them, what their range is, how we deploy them, and God knows what else.”

  The statement hung in the air like a rotting corpse. “You are a disgrace and a menace, Lieutenant. That is a given. The question before us is whether any part of your sorry ass is still salvageable.”

  Vasquez leaned back in his chair for a moment before placing his elbows on the table. He looked at the defendant. Fear stalked Pino’s eyes. It was vile and venomous, scaling his skin like a snake climbing a tree.

  “Have you anything to say in your defense, Lieutenant?”

  “I am a member in good standing with the Party. I have been well trained—”

  Vasquez cut him short. “You may have been well trained, Lieutenant, but you failed to learn your lessons. Anything else?”

  Pino’s limbs felt like mush, and he wondered whether he’d be able to exit the courtroom by himself. He didn’t want to stumble. He blanched to think he might need help. He refocused his attention on the captain and mumbled, “I believe in our great revolution—”

  “Enough, Lieutenant.”

  Pino’s face paled white as flour.

  Vasquez closed his folder. “Your loyalty is noted, Lieutenant. But make no mistake; there will be hell to pay for your actions. Court is recessed for three hours while we consider your sentence.”

  Vasquez pounded the gavel, and Pino was escorted out of the courtroom.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Immediately following breakfast at Freedom House, the men who had served in the Cuban military were separated from the rest of the refugees for an official debriefing. They were taken to a room located on the ground floor of the Opa-locka Airport in Miami. The letters CIA were etched in gold on a plate-glass door.

  Frank was introduced to Agent Santo, a Cuban-American with piercing brown eyes. The agent had a thick mane of curly brown hair. He carried himself with confidence, and he spoke fluent Spanish.

  As a CIA agent, Frank expected Santo to be dressed in a dark suit, but he was wearing casual clothes, an expensive watch, and a gold ring boasting a clear ruby. The stone glowed a vibrant red in the sunlight. Frank stared at the ring for a moment, wondering whether he’d ever be affluent enough to own one.

  Frank had heard a lot about the agency while he was part of the force, and none of what he was told was good. But he never believed half of it, and he was willing to keep an open mind.

  After shaking Frank’s hand and welcoming him to America, Santo ushered him into a sunlit room with a large wooden table surrounded by six sturdy chairs. The agent gestured for Frank to sit while he took the seat at the head of the table.

  Santo studied Frank for a moment before saying, “So you were in the Revolutionary Armed Forces.”

  “Yes.”

  He opened his briefcase to retrieve a form while he continued talking. “What did you do?”

  Frank smiled briefly, knowing what he was about to disclose would likely surprise Santo.

  “I was a member of the Elite Counterattack Force.”

  Santo looked up and sucked in his breath. His brow furrowed as he grabbed a notepad off the table. He clicked the button on his ballpoint pen and stared at Frank. His face assumed an expectant look. He began to speak in a low, modulated voice.

  “You know as well as I do that the Cold War is a war of intelligence. As you can imagine, the CIA would be very interested in learning what we can about Cuba’s munitions, strategies, and capabilities. It is a matter of national security.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  Santo hesitated. “I’m sorry, but I must ask you this before we proceed: are you a member of the Communist Party?”

  “No, sir. I was a member of the Special Forces, but I have no respect for communists.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I think they’re a bunch of thugs.”

  Santo regarded Frank closely. “But you were a member of the force, one of Fidel’s elite.”

  “I was, but that didn’t mean I agreed with him, his philosophy, or his policies.”

  “What did it mean then?” asked Santo, sharpness edging his voice.

  Frank examined his interrogator’s face, thinking Santo knew more than he let on. “You are Cuban, I presume.”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you born in the States?”

  “No. But this isn’t about me.”

  Frank smiled knowingly. “Then I don’t think I need to explain.”

  Santo shrugged. “Okay, have it your way.”

  The two men sat in silence for a moment, lost in their own thoughts. Frank remembered the day he was chosen to be a member of the force, the first day he laid eyes on Lieutenant Pino. He had looked at that clean-shaven man with his close-cropped hair and wondered how their lives would intersect. Little did he know the impact they’d have on each other one day.

  Santo gave Frank a moment to reflect before he asked, “Would you be willing to cooperate with us, Mr. Mederos?”

  Frank smiled slightly. He was feeling at once excited about talking about his experiences in the force and exhausted after his long ordeal at sea.

  “Please, call me Frank.”

  “Okay, Frank. And call me Carlos.”

  The men smiled at each other, knowing full well that they each had a long story, the details of which neither would likely ever know.

  Carlos sat back in his chair and tapped a Camel out of its pack. He tilted the pack in Frank’s direction and offered him one.

  Frank waved his hand. “Thanks, but not now.”

  Carlos placed the cigarette between his lips and lifted a gold-plated lighter to its tip. The flame flared briefly. He snapped the lighter shut and placed it next to the glass ashtray on the table. He drew a deep breath, held the smoke in his lungs, and tilted his head upward. He exhaled a long line of smoke.

  “I’m going to assume you’ll be honest with us,” he said.

  Frank looked at him, thinking about how often he had dreamed about this moment, had thought about how good it would feel to offer information that might help destroy Fidel’s regime. An image of Abuelo flashed through his mind. Frank knew his grandfather would be proud to see him sitting here about to help the Americans. Frank sighed, visualizing his grandfather. His sigh was louder than he expected, and he felt slightly embarrassed.

  He locked his gaze on his interrogator, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “Your assumption is correct,” Frank said in a voice that was barely a whisper.

  Carlos raised his pen. “Let’s start from the beginning.”

  Frank closed his eyes for a moment as Santo touched pen to paper.

  “How old were you when you joined the force?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “And you were in the army before that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why were you selected?”

  Frank smiled to himself. “I’m not quite sure. I think because I can read and write. I’m literate.”

  “Any other reasons?”

  “I attended a government-run school after I served in the Literacy Brigade.”

  “Where did you serve?”

  “In the Sierra Maestra. Tried to teach farmers to read.”

  “Did you succeed?”

  “As well as anyone, given the circumstances.”

  Carlo
s nodded his understanding.

  “How well do you know the Sierra Maestra?”

  “Fairly well,” Frank said, having no idea why he was being asked this question. “I lived there on and off three times. I’m familiar with the geography.” He watched Carlos make a note.

  “Where was the government school?”

  “On the outskirts of Havana. Nice facility. But I hated the propaganda.”

  “So?”

  “So I escaped.”

  Carlos arched his eyebrow. “Escaped?”

  “Yes,” Frank said smiling. “It was kid stuff really. A bunch of my friends came and rescued me. On bicycles no less. We must’ve been quite a sight.”

  Carlos tossed his head to the side, indicating he had no interest in this topic.

  “Getting back to the force.”

  “Yes?”

  “How many men are in the force at any one time?”

  “Between three hundred and three hundred and fifty. Men come and go.”

  “What was your position?”

  “I was an Anti-tank Guided Missile operator—ATGM.”

  Carlos’s eyes shone briefly. From his reaction Frank could tell Santo knew precisely what he did. But Santo was a shrewd interrogator. Since there was no way to corroborate Frank’s story, he needed to make sure Frank knew what he was talking about.

  “Who supplied the equipment?”

  “It was Russian made.”

  The light in Carlos’s eyes told Frank he was familiar with ATGMs and their capability. He seemed satisfied with Frank’s answer.

  “What did you do specifically?”

  “I launched missiles.”

  “Were you good at it?”

  “I could hold my own.”

  Frank studied Carlos as his lips flattened and curled inward. He knew the agent was hoping he could tell him a great deal more about the missiles. Frank possessed the kind of information the agency wanted.

  “Where are the missiles stored?”

  Frank smiled slightly while Carlos watched him. “Is that all you need to know?”

  Carlos leaned forward in his chair, expectantly.