“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 tha
t 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.
“Sleep okay?”
The woman climbed up the steps to the main cabin. She wore khaki pants, pulled tight at the waist but baggy, and a burnt-orange blouse that accented the color of her eyes. For the first time, her hair was down, long and raven-black, hanging over her left shoulder. There was no puffiness in her face, and the fresh light made her look more Indian than Cuban.
“I slept quite well, thank you.”
She hung over the railing of the fighting deck, looking landward.
“Is that Cuba?” As evenly as she said it, there was still just the slightest hint of excitement in her voice.
Before us, the bleak facades of pre-Castro high-rises and factories had disappeared into rolling hills and cliffs banking into the sea. On the hills was the green of bamboo and the deeper green of ficus and gumbo limbo trees.
“Yeah,” I said, “that’s Cuba.”
I could understand her excitement. It wasn’t just the mission. I knew that. It was the impact of seeing her native land after such a long absence. I knew how I had felt upon seeing the United States after my first long hitch in Nam—and America was still mine; not the victim of some raving maniac for a dictator. It was even before “our” demonstrators turned destructive.
But Cuba was no longer hers. It was a homeland of the past, like someone well loved and lost.
“Pretty country, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It sure is, Androsa.”
It was the first time I had called her by her first name, and instinctively, she turned toward me when I said it. Her mahogany eyes were moist, brimming, close to tears. But her guard was down only momentarily, and she turned quickly away.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Androsa. It’s only natural that you should feel—”
She cut me off. “Mr. MacMorgan, how I feel is none of your concern.” She had her back to me, trying to get her emotions under control. “And if our business relationship is to continue civilly, I would much prefer that you called me by my surname.”
“Santarun, right?”
“Well, Miss Santarun might be more appropriate.”
“Fine. In that case, I much prefer that you don’t call me by my surname. Dusky will do. MacMorgan sounds too much like a hamburger chain.”
The emotion was still on the surface, and she couldn’t help the smile. She hurried by me, back into the cabin, calling as she went, “Do you want some more coffee?”
“Yeah. And put another pot on—that is, if you don’t mind.”
She came up with a fresh mug and put it on the console in front of me. “Mr., ah, Dusky . . . I’m sorry if I am brusque. But this is a business venture. It seems to me that it’s all part of your job—”
“No one likes being treated like hired help, Miss Santarun.”
Her eyes flashed. “But dammit, you are hired help. You’re being paid and paid well—far too much, to my mind.”
I held my hands up. “Hold it, hold it. We were starting to get along fairly well, there. Let’s just treat each other like human beings, that’s all I ask. Now let’s change the subject.”
She took a deep breath, then sipped at her coffee. There was no mistaking the face she made. “This coffee’s terrible,” she said.
“You had your chance to make it. Besides, I like it terrible. It keeps me awake.”
She tasted the coffee again, adjusting to the strength of it. “I guess you did have a long night. Was there any trouble?”
“Staying awake was the toughest thing, like I said. A lot of distress calls on VHF—mostly in Spanish. So I played a little game to keep my mind on what I was doing. You know how a kid counts telephone poles on a long car trip? Well, I counted boats. One way or another, we passed two hundred and fiftyseven. Busy night.”
“And how far are we now from Mariel Harbor?”
“Mile and a half, two miles. It won’t be long.”
She strolled around the aft deck, stretching, combing through her long black hair with her fingers. “Dusky,” she said, “what kind of boat is that back there, right behind us?”
I didn’t even turn around. “Him? Oh, he’s been tailing us ever since we got into Cuban waters. It’s a gunboat. A Cuban gunboat.”
The bitterness in her voice was like a living thing. “You’re wrong about that, Mr. MacMorgan. It’s not a Cuban gunboat. It’s a Castro gunboat. Believe me, there’s a difference. . . .”
8
The gunboat trailed us on toward the mouth of Mariel Harbor, keeping a discreet distance. In the fresh daylight, we moved over the black water past wooden swordfishing boats, their orange bouys marking miles of line—and their spritsail masts probably doubling as radio transmitters.
Abruptly, the water changed; the bottom came up from six hundred fathoms to fifteen fathoms, the hue of the sea was a soft blue jell, and you could see big fish moving among the safety of coral heads below, and the white sand, flourlike, on the bottom. From the flybridge, the water was like tinted glass and it seemed as if we were aviators at a dreamy low altitude, and the shadow of Sniper pressed on before us, cloudlike on the white sand.
The first view of Mariel Harbor is the picture of industry: a dozen smokestacks, a power plant, and a cement factory beneath scarred hillsides on the eastern edge of the entrance. Khaki-colored dumptrucks rumbled along dirt roads barely slowing for muledrawn carts. And from my vantage point a half mile out to sea they looked like toys, and the exhaust from the factory stacks curved away with the wind and blended with the low mountain clouds.
“Have you ever been here before—to Mariel?”
The woman stood beside me, her eyes taking in everything as we approached. I had dropped Sniper down to twelve hundred RPM, lining her up with the middle channel marker, taking her in slow.
Behind us, the gunboat slowed also.
“When I was a child, yes,” she said. “My father brought me here. The power plant was not built then. And the cliffs were covered with trees.”
“It must have been pretty.”
She nodded. “But not as pretty as other parts of Cuba.”
“I’ve never been here, but when I was a boy I had a friend who was a very fine writer, and he told me about Mariel. He said they used to smuggle Chinese out of this harbor. One his friends lost an arm here. He didn’t say how.”
Her thin laughter was edged with bitterness. “So now Mariel is for smuggling Cubans. Let’s hope we both keep our arms.”
The entranceway to the harbor was narrow, less than a quarter mile wide, and a half-dozen American boats—cruisers, shrimp boats, and a couple of small skiffs—were anchored off the entrance in the clear water. The crews and the Cuban-Americans who had come to claim relatives were all topside in the sun, lounging and smoking nervously. It was a running tide, outgoing, and empty Coke cans and garbage bags and wine bottles flowed out to sea. A narrow paw of beach curved around on the west side of the entrance furred with tall casuarinas, which blocked our view of the harbor proper. But even above the pines I could see the masts and rigging of a thousand boats—with untold more blending into the distance.
Cuban Death-Lift Page 7