Cuban Death-Lift

by Striker, Randy

  The woman was already up, leaning out anxiously over the railing trying to see what the Cubans were shooting at.

  “Get down, dammit!”

  I jerked her roughly down onto the deck. The light swept across Sniper, showing her face pale, wide-eyed. She wore a white T-shirt and sheer panties which, in the brief shock of light, showed her as she would look naked.

  “Those bastards are crazy,” I said. “They’re not even sure what they’re shooting at, and one dead Cuban-American woman isn’t going to bother them one way or the other. So stay down, got it?”

  She nodded quickly. She was shaking, and it wasn’t from the cool night wind. I knew what was on her mind. She thought that this was it: Castro’s way of getting rid of one American spy.

  When the searchlight had crossed back over Sniper, I poked my head under the railing and followed the path of the beam.

  And then I saw it.

  A human figure swimming for his life. In the brilliance of the beam, steam came up off the water, and the swimmer appeared oil-black. He was doing a ragged, overhand crawlstroke. He swam with his head up, legs way too low, and I knew that only fear and adrenaline could provide the strength it would take for him to make it the sixty yards to the nearest boat—my boat, Sniper.

  “Why don’t they just send a boat out and arrest him?” the woman wondered out loud, angry, almost yelling it.

  “Oh, they’re sending a skiff out right now—see the light over by the wharf? But they don’t want to arrest him. They want to make an example out of him. They want to kill him.”

  The searchlight was full on the refugee. It was pathetic. He tried to disappear underwater once, but he was no swimmer, and he came back up only a few seconds later.

  Poppa-poppa-pop . . .

  It was a sound I knew well.

  The assault rifles swept across him in an explosion of spray. One of the slugs jerked him back and swung him around. It must have hit him in the shoulder, because he floundered in the water with one weak arm pawing for survival.

  In that harsh steaming light, he looked like a dog abandoned at sea, finally ready to give up.

  I felt the anger move through me like a fever. Those bastards. It was something the soldiers would laugh about in the morning. Who was the best shot? Which of them could cut a notch in their Russian rifles?

  Even as I watched, my hands began to move as if they had minds of their own, stripping off my T-shirt, working at my belt.

  “Dusky, what are you doing!”

  “I think I might go for a little swim.”

  She pulled herself close beside me, drawing my head around to face her.

  “Dusky, there’s nothing you can do. Can’t you see that? My God, don’t try something so stupid! You can’t save him—”

  “That’s right, I can’t. But dammit, I can try.” She was right, of course. He was a goner. One way or another, they would get him.

  But at least I could try to spoil their fun.

  Wearing only underwear I dove headlong into the harbor—head down, hands joined into fists to punch a good hole in the water. A nice quiet dive. I swam strong and smooth, eyes up, watching, in a lifesaver’s crawl.

  The poor bastard was still using the one evasive tactic he had. He’d come up for a quick breath, wave his one good arm as if to surrender, then push himself back under when the soldiers started shooting again.

  They weren’t about to let him surrender.

  Poppa-poppa-pop . . .

  More gunfire. Absently, I wondered how long it would take a company of good Marines to bust these Cuban amateurs into submission and work their way to downtown Havana.

  About as long as it would take me to swim to the wounded refugee, probably.

  As I drew closer, I could hear him splashing and gasping, moaning in pain.

  “Yo rendir! Por favor, yo rendir!”

  But the Cuban soldiers weren’t about to have their sleep interrupted for nothing. They weren’t about to let him surrender.

  They fired again, the slugs throwing green wakes into the water.

  I was right on the perimeter of the big beam of searchlight. I exhaled completely, took five good deep breaths, then dove. I had my target marked well.

  But even if I didn’t, I would have found him anyway. It was a night of neap moon, and the water was filled with the billions of little microorganisms that glow like fireflies at the slightest stir. And the green sparkle of phosphorescence marked my objective as I swam in long gliding strokes beneath the surface.

  It’s weird underwater at night.

  And even stranger when the trajectories of bullets throw glowing half moons ahead of you.

  In the eerie radiance of bioluminescence, I could see his legs struggling in an awkward scull kick. His one arm hung limply at his left side. He lifted slightly, then threw his right arm upward, pushing himself underwater.

  I had to figure that he had taken a pretty good breath. For his sake, I hoped he had.

  And when he came down, eyes squinched shut, teeth bared with strain, I took him by the shoulders, turned him around, and grabbed him firmly across the chest.

  It scared him. Shocked the hell out of him. And I knew he thought that a shark had him.

  I put my mouth right against his ear and yelled, “Amigo!” The water distorted the word, but it still came out as that of a human voice. He struggled briefly, then resigned himself to holding his breath.

  And hoping.

  It’s not easy pulling someone else along underwater. You have to fight the buoyancy of two bodies and, all the while, try to build up enough gliding momentum to make some distance.

  I knew that I had to cover at least twenty yards, or we were both dead.

  But there was no way that he had the wind for it. I felt his chest heave, demanding that his brain let him breathe. And then he began to struggle again—this time, a life-and-death struggle.

  I exhaled slightly, trying to rid my lungs of any carbon dioxide build-up, and then I forced my mouth down over his while pinching his nose shut. I exhaled sharply, trying to fill his lungs with some good air. And when I did, my fingers touched a sickly mat of damaged flesh on the left side of his head.

  So his shoulder wasn’t the only thing that had slowed a slug.

  He stopped struggling momentarily. And I knew the charge of air had done him some good.

  Pull . . . frog-kick . . . glide, then pull again before the momentum is halted.

  When I knew that we had escaped the glare of searchlight, I surfaced. The refugee’s head hung limply on his shoulder, but he was still alive.

  In my bad Spanish, I whispered hoarsely in his ear, “Respirar! Respirar!”

  His chest heaved and he took a couple of shallow breaths. And when he was ready, I pulled him down again, swimming hard for the black silhouette of Sniper.

  I could hear the whir of a small boat propeller, and a shaft of light with milky radiance swept through the green water, then moved away.

  I had to surface once more before the final swim to the temporary safety of my boat.

  They would get him. Sooner or later. Unless . . .

  I couldn’t waste energy thinking about the possibilities. The Cuban skiff was circling in the area where I had first jerked the refugee under.

  That was good. Maybe they thought he was dead. Shot or drowned.

  There were soldiers in the skiff, faces lighted by the white glow of stern light. They waved their rifles around menacingly, and I could hear their loud laughter. It was great sport to them. Hunt down the unarmed man. Shoot and shoot until a lucky shot finally hit him, then search for the trophy—a body, floating.

  If I ever get the chance, you bastards will be the first to go. . . .

  When we were safely away, I pulled the refugee around to the starboard side of Sniper, using my boat as a shield from the searchlight on the military outpost.

  In the thin night light, I could see that the left side of his head was a mass of blood. It was amazing that he had l
asted as long in the water as he did.

  “Dusky? Dusky, is that you?”

  It was Androsa. She leaned over the railing, peering down into the darkness.

  “There’s a boarding ladder in the stern locker, under the life jackets. Get it.”

  She hurried away while I tried to catch my breath. It had been one hell of a swim.

  When the ladder was down and secured, I got the refugee across my shoulder, then pulled myself up onto the deck, trying to stay low. The woman was smart. She hadn’t turned on a single light. But then I realized that probably wasn’t the smart thing after all. The vessels nearest Sniper—the closest about two hundred yards away—all had their lights on, awakened by the shooting.

  Quickly, I carried him down into the cabin. He was moaning now, spitting up water hot on my back. I put him down on the forward berth and swung his feet up.

  “Hit the main switch,” I said.

  The woman had followed me in. She stood close behind me, her hand on my arm, looking around my shoulder.

  “What? But they’ll see—”

  “Damn it, Androsa, turn on some lights. It’s the only way we’re not going to look suspicious.”

  When the overhead lamp came on, I got my first good look at the man I had saved. He was something over six feet tall, bony but not skinny. He wore cheap sackcloth pants and a shirt of the same material. His skin was light, his face that of the pure-blooded Basque, and he had a narrow mustache and a seven-or eight-day growth of black beard.

  I reached beneath the berth and took out a square of green tarp. When I had it spread out, I rolled him over on it, then pulled off the bedsheets before the blood had a chance to soak through. He wasn’t bleeding profusely; not now anyway. But his hair was so matted that I couldn’t get a good look at the head wound.

  “Here. I brought this.”

  The woman shoved the first-aid kit in front of me. And then: “No, don’t wipe it like that. You should pat the blood off . . . here, let me.”

  I stood up, giving her room to work. When I did, she did a double take. At first, I thought it was because I wore only the sodden underwear. But then I knew what she was looking at, her dark eyes locked on my hips.

  “My God, what . . . how did you get that?”

  “A big dusky shark took me for a surface lure one night.”

  I nodded toward the man who lay on the tarp. “But he’s the one who needs help now. My shark story can wait. This scar isn’t going anyplace.”

  She worked on him calmly and professionally, cleaning and bandaging the wounds.

  “He’s very badly hurt,” she said.

  “Well, maybe the Cubans will let a doctor look at him before they send him off to prison—”

  “No!”

  She said it with such intensity, such determination, that it took me aback.

  “Androsa, even if the soldiers decide that he drowned and call off the search, the authorities will still find him when they make the final search before we leave.”

  Her eyes were resolute. “Dusky, we can’t let Castro’s people get him again. Not after what he’s been through—and not after what you went through to save him. Besides, if they find out that we helped him, I’ll never get my father. Never!”

  It was a sound enough argument, but she was holding something back. I could see it just beyond the glimmer of her mahogany eyes—there was something she wasn’t telling me.

  And that’s when I began to suspect.

  But I didn’t push it.

  “Okay,” I said. “Fine. We’ll hide him as best we can.”

  She sighed, relieved.

  I took another long look at the refugee, then climbed the cabin steps topside. Out on the harbor, the search was still underway. A gunboat had joined the skiff, idling back and forth, working its way away from Sniper.

  There was no laughter now.

  Their trophy was nowhere to be found.

  I grabbed a towel, stripped off my underwear, and dried off. The green glow of my Rolex watch said it was nearly three a.m.

  Some rude awakening.

  I hung my shorts over the stainless-steel wheel to dry, then pulled on the good dryness of khaki pants and T-shirt. It wouldn’t do to be soaking wet when the soldiers started their search of boats.

  And I knew they would. Sooner or later, if the body didn’t appear, they would have to.

  It surprised me when I heard the sound of a weak male voice coming from the cabin. I had told Androsa to call me if the refugee regained consciousness. And just as I was about to go below to see if he had anything to say, I stopped myself.

  Maybe she hadn’t called me for a reason.

  Barefooted, I made my way along the starboard walkway forward. The port above the master berth was screened from bugs, but open for the breeze. I stretched out over and in, looking down into the cabin.

  I could see them both clearly. The white T-shirt did a bad job of hiding Androsa’s nakedness, and she had the man’s head cradled in her lap. She spoke in whispered Spanish: rapid, inquisitive.

  He was so weak that he could do nothing else but whisper. His words came in agonizing gasps. And I knew he didn’t have much longer to live. Every now and then he would clutch at the bandage on his head in a spasm of pain. When he did speak, it seemed to be a rambling montage of nouns, all in delirious disorder.

  Androsa did her best to calm him, stroking his head with a damp cloth and questioning him softly. There was a gentleness to her that I had only suspected.

  He spasmed again, and she held him tightly.

  “Halcón . . . Halcón . . . no, no, ustedes hermanastro . . .”

  He said this last in a hoarse shout, rolling out of Androsa’s arms in his pain, and then, mercifully, was quiet. Sobbing quietly, the woman pulled his eyelids shut and covered his face with the tarp.

  Quickly, I made my way back to the aft deck, his feverish last words echoing in my brain.

  Hermanastro? What in the hell did hermanastro mean? Herman was “brother,” but what was . . .

  Androsa came onto the deck stoically, her eyes already dry.

  “He’s gone,” she said simply.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She touched my face with her hand. “You did more than most men would have done—Cuban or otherwise.”

  It was an honest bitterness I felt; honest because it seems that, no matter how hard you try, no matter how desperately you fight, death is always the unchallenged victor. “Right,” I said. “Absolutely. I’m a real goddam ace. . . .”

  11

  It didn’t take me long to verify that the dead “refugee” was really one of the Cuban-American CIA agents sent to Mariel Harbor to rescue General Halcón.

  While Androsa stayed up on the deck, trying to recover while keeping an eye on the progress of the search boats, I went back below.

  “I’ll take care of the body,” I told her.

  “But how? What will you do?”

  She looked tired, depressed. There was a strange emptiness in her eyes. She still wore the baggy T-shirt and brief panties. I put my arm around her, and she sagged against my chest. Her hair smelled lightly of tanning oil, and her skin was soft.

  “You need some sleep. You look tired.”

  “Oh, I feel so damn . . . helpless!”

  I thought she was going to cry again, but she didn’t.

  “You’re anything but helpless. Just tired, that’s all.” I patted her head gently. “I’ll take care of things down in the cabin. When I’m done, I’ll call you. And then you can get back to sleep.”

  She looked up into my face. Her lips were moist and parted, and there was a soft sleepiness to her face. She looked very kissable, and I felt something in my stomach stir, but now was not the time.

  She said, “Dusky, when we started this trip I . . . I hated you. And I hated the idea of having to be on this boat with you. But now I’m glad. You aren’t like I thought, and . . . and I’m glad. . . .”

  She left the sentence unfinished,
sighing.

  “I’ve wondered about that—why did you hate me? I’ve always thought I was a pretty swell guy.”

  She almost smiled. “Do you want me to be honest?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, so many Anglos come to Mariel to get rich. They charge my people unbelievably high prices to bring them here. My people had to mortgage their homes, sell their jewelry, and . . . well, I just don’t like people who try to make money on the desperation of others.”

  “I didn’t come cheap,” I said. It wasn’t true—but I had to say it.

  “I know, I know.” She stopped and looked at me. “But no matter how hard I try now, I can’t make myself believe that you came for the money. No one else would have jumped in to save . . . save that poor man.” She was studying me now, the way someone might study an enigmatic painting. “Dusky, somehow, you give me the feeling that you care. I never expected that—never, not from some big blond-haired charter-boat captain. But I’m . . . I’m glad. . . .”

  Her face was tilted toward mine. It was a face from Gauguin; a dream face draped in a black sheen of hair. I felt myself drifting toward her, wanting her lips, wanting to hold her, wanting to take her as a part of me—to strip away that final reserve which was the mystery of her and discover the woman inside.

  Abruptly, she turned her face aside.

  “I’d better keep an eye on those . . . those search boats,” she said. Her breathing seemed strangely labored, and as she turned sideways I could see the points of her nipples erect beneath the thin T-shirt.

  “Right,” I said. “Yeah, you better do that.”

  “And you’ll take care of—”

  “Right.”

  I went below and quickly lashed the tarp and bloody sheet around the body. His face was waxy, peaceful in death. And, as always, I felt that odd sense of loss in the face of death, like a member of some huge fleet who looks out and sees that boats are being quietly abandoned. That seemed to describe death better than anything else. Personalities don’t die, they just disappear; abandon their vessels for—for what?

  Who the hell knows. Or cares.

  I pushed back the screen of the overhead port and shoved the body up onto the foredeck.