Ryan walked the deck to check the boat’s condition. Nicole lounged in the cockpit. The only part of the jib remaining lay in the furler’s slot. The mast had broken at the level of the winches. The cable stays from the mast trailed in the water, the mast now gone. The remainder of the mast’s base made a gaping hole extending down into the bilge.
‘‘The pump must have controlled all the water coming in last night,’’ he said. ‘‘We need to find some way to plug this up.’’
The wind had bent the dodger’s supports, and its canvas was shredded.
‘‘What will we do?’’ Nicole asked.
‘‘We keep going and maintain a sharp eye for assistance.’’
‘‘I’m hungry,’’ Ryan said. ‘‘Make me something.’’
Nicole went below and made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Ryan took a bite. ‘‘PB & J, just like when we were kids.’’
While he ate, Nicole looked out over the endless sea. She felt helpless and depressed. ‘‘Perhaps someone will find us.’’
‘‘I’d expect lots of traffic in this area.’’
Nicole went below to brush her teeth, but when she opened the tap, nothing came out. She stuck her head up through the companionway. ‘‘There’s no water.’’
‘‘What do you mean? Carlos filled the water tank before we left.’’
She stood back from the sink while he opened and closed both the hot and cold-water taps. Each time he opened the tap, the pump ran, but no water appeared.
Ryan looked under the sink. ‘‘I’ll find out what’s wrong.’’ He traced the clear plastic water hoses to the pump. When he placed his hand on it, he jerked it back from the intense heat. He followed the hose to the pump as it ran aft to the water tank. Everything looked intact, but when he opened the plate over the tank, it was empty. He scratched his head.
‘‘I don’t know what happened,’’ he said. ‘‘The water tank is empty.’’
Ryan returned to the pump. He followed the outflow line as it branched forward to the bathroom. About ten feet forward, the line had separated and saturated the area with water. The break in the line had allowed the pump to empty the water tank.
‘‘How much water do we have?’’
‘‘We had two gallon bottles, but they broke during the storm. We have only two bottles of apple juice and a bottle of tequila.’’
The boat drifted under clear blue skies. The temperature rose, and, with no wind for relief, they started to feel the effects of the heat and lack of water.
‘‘You look flushed,’’ Nicole said. ‘‘How do you feel?’’
‘‘I’m fine. How are you?’’
‘‘I feel achy, like I’m getting a cold. Do you think it’s the virus?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’
They drifted for two days and nights. Lights appeared in the distance, but when Ryan tried the radio, he received no response.
They drank the juices.
Ryan placed his hand on his forehead. ‘‘I’m flushed and feverish. My body and head are aching and I’m weak.’’
Nicole wiped sweat from her brow. ‘‘I’m sick, too.’’ She placed her hand on Ryan’s forehead. ‘‘You’re burning up.’’
He smacked her hand away. ‘‘Don’t touch me.’’
Nicole cried.
The next night as they lay in bed, Nicole had violent hallucinations. She thrashed in her berth, screaming and fighting against something unseen. In her dream, she saw dark shadows approaching from the distance.
By morning, they were exhausted.
It was still dark when Ryan dragged himself from his berth. He reached for the light, flipping the switch, but it didn’t come on.
He climbed into the cockpit for relief from the stifling heat below. As he dragged himself behind the wheel, he saw an enormous, white cruise ship not more than two miles away. He reached for the VHF handset.
‘‘This is the vessel, Adios. Mayday… mayday… mayday.’’
Hearing nothing, he looked at the radio, and saw no lights showing. The dial was in the ‘‘On’’ position, but the radio was dead. They must have drained the batteries.
They remained below the next day.
Nicole opened her eyes, and in the distance, the clock on the saloon wall read 2 p.m. Her head dropped immediately from the effort to raise it. In a dreamlike state, she saw the sunlight dim as the boat rocked gently, and then the sky opened. Rain poured down on Adios. Life-saving water ran into the cockpit and down the drains.
Her mind recognized what was happening. ‘‘Water… water,’’ she whispered through her parched lips and thick tongue. ‘‘Water…’’ Nicole’s eyes moved over to Ryan’s berth. He lay motionless and pale. She tried to call his name, but nothing came out.
God save us, was her last thought as she slipped into unconsciousness.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Rafael Ochoa sat in the warden’s office at Combinado Del Este Prison. ‘‘Where are the emails?’’
Ochoa’s aide rose to attention. ‘‘They’re on their way with an Arabic translator, but they’re encrypted.’’
Ochoa smiled. ‘‘Take me to our guest.’’
Jorge Lopez sat in a hard chair behind a metal table bolted to the floor. They’d shackled his hands and ankles. His face was bruised, his lip lacerated, and his right eye was swollen shut. He lifted his head from the table when the door opened, and Ochoa entered.
Ochoa sat across the table. ‘‘Do you know who I am?’’
Jorge turned his head to the right so he could see better with his left eye. He trembled. ‘‘Yes, you’re Colonel Ochoa. I’m so glad to see you, Señor. You can help me. I don’t know why I’m here, but I can assure you it’s all a mistake.’’
Ochoa turned his head toward the one-way mirror and nodded. Ten seconds later, a burly prison guard entered. When the man turned to Ochoa, the colonel nodded his head, and the guard walked to Jorge’s side.
‘‘Please, Colonel…’’ Jorge started when the guard’s fist smashed into his left cheek. The blow sent his chair reeling backwards until it tipped over, sending Jorge’s head to the floor.
Jorge sobbed as the guard lifted him back to the sitting position, and placed him again across from Ochoa.
Ochoa smiled. ‘‘Please don’t make me do that again, Señor Lopez. I’m not a violent man. I hate this. Let us be reasonable.’’
‘‘What do you want?’’
‘‘Do you know Fernando Baños?’’
‘‘The name’s familiar.’’
Ochoa nodded, and the guard again approached Jorge.
‘‘Okay, okay. I know him.’’
‘‘Let me save us time, Jorge. Tell me what happened when you met with Dr. Baños and the Americans.’’
‘‘They needed medical advice and medications for their upcoming trip.’’
Ochoa shook his head in sadness and disbelief. When he nodded, the guard delivered a powerful blow to Jorge’s midsection, leaving him gasping for breath.
‘‘This is stupid,’’ Ochoa said. ‘‘Do you believe you can withstand the pain we’re willing to inflict on you to get to the truth? I respect what you’ve taken already. Let’s have no more of it. It demeans us both.’’
‘‘If you don’t believe me, ask Dr. Baños.’’
Ochoa smiled. ‘‘You’re a brave and resourceful man, Señor, but an intelligent man understands when he’s out of options.’’
‘‘Options?’’
Ochoa stood. ‘‘Then you’re a fool, Señor. Everyone talks, and eventually, you’ll be telling me all about Baños. Be smart. It’ll be easier on you if it’s sooner, rather than later.’’
As he headed for the door, Ochoa turned to the guard. ‘‘Take as long as you like, and do whatever’s necessary to convince him. Call me when he’s ready to talk.’’
Before long, they were sitting in a nearby room, trying to read the email.
A female intelligence officer, whose last assignment
had been Cairo, translated for them. ‘‘I can read the part in Arabic, but the rest is in code.’’
‘‘Read me what you can,’’ Ochoa said.
‘‘Only that he’s leaving for London, and that his trip had been fruitful. The rest is numbers, symbols, and letters.’’
Ochoa turned to his aide. ‘‘Can we get this decoded?’’
‘‘I turned it over to intelligence services, but they’re not encouraging. They say it’s private key coded.’’
‘‘What’s that?’’
‘‘Nobody can decode this without a key. Even the CIA would have trouble with this message.’’
Ochoa heard the knock on the door. The warden opened it, and then turned to the colonel. ‘‘Señor Lopez is ready.’’
When Ochoa returned to the interrogation room, Lopez lay in the corner, curled into the fetal position. When he looked up, his bloody, swollen face made him unrecognizable.
‘‘What did Dr. Baños do for you?’’
‘‘He showed us how to reconstitute and administer the virus.’’
‘‘What virus? Where did you get it?’’
‘‘It came in the Syrian diplomatic pouch.’’
‘‘What is it?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’
‘‘Bullshit,’’ Ochoa cried, gesturing for the guard to come over again. ‘‘What is it?’’
Jorge shrank away. ‘‘Please, Señor, no more. I’ll tell you everything I know. Please, no more.’’
Ochoa raised his hand to stop the guard. ‘‘Digame, tell me.’’
‘‘It’s a highly infectious and potent virus. They designed it to kill thousands of Americans… they never told me its name.’’
‘‘Who’s ‘they’?’’
‘‘Ask the Syrians. It came in their diplomatic pouch.’’
‘‘How were they going to use it?’’
‘‘They’ll reconstitute the virus, and administer it by mouth when they are one week from Miami. When they reached the USA, they’d have few symptoms, and could blend into the community before they reached the infectious stage. By then, it will be too late for thousands.’’
‘‘What is it?’’ Ochoa shouted.
‘‘I swear on my mother’s grave that I don’t know. Please Señor, I don’t know.’’
The next day near noon, Ochoa returned to the interrogation room. ‘‘All this for nothing, Señor Lopez. We have everything we need from Dr. Baños. He’s not as tough as you.’’
‘‘It’s too late, Colonel,’’ Jorge said. ‘‘Soon, the dead will cover the streets of Miami, and the world will know the horror of…’’
Jorge stopped, coughed up bloody mucous, and then looked up at Ochoa with a thin smile. ‘‘Very good, Colonel. Baños never talked. He couldn’t talk, since he knew nothing. I’m guessing he’s dead.’’
Ochoa clenched his jaw in anger.
‘‘You still don’t know, do you?’’
Ochoa felt his heart drop. ‘‘Know what?’’
Jorge managed a bloody smile. ‘‘You’ll understand soon enough. Soon enough.’’
Back in the warden’s office, Ochoa’s mind raced. A terrorist attack on the United States of America originating in Cuba?
Ochoa turned to his aide. ‘‘Let’s get back to Havana. I must meet with Raúl Castro as soon as possible. Tell him it’s urgent, and a matter of national security.’’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sandy Howard sat before her computer screen at the Tropical Prediction Center in Miami.
‘‘You’d better take a look at this, Peter.’’
Peter Blaire stood behind her, and studied the display. ‘‘Let me see the most recent satellite images.’’
Sandy’s fingers flew over the keyboard, and, in seconds, they had the GOES satellite images. They reviewed three loops: the visible, the infrared, and the water vapor. The clouds off the Belize coast were active and moving ever so slowly toward Cancun. Moreover, the disturbance had developed a distinct counterclockwise rotation.
Peter stood. ‘‘With surface temperatures so high, and so little wind aloft, we’re going to have a tropical storm, or a hurricane, in a day, or so.’’
‘‘What’s first on the list for this season?’’
‘‘Agnes, an old-fashioned, but powerful name.’’
‘‘We’d better put out a tropical storm watch for the area.’’
The Cuban fast patrol boat, Faul II, plowed through the 5-foot seas at full speed. When they arrived at Adios’ last known position, they found nothing. They scanned the area with their 28-mile radar, but they knew, in reality, that a sailboat might not register on radar until they were much closer.
The Captain, Raphael Ortiz, radioed back to Havana. ‘‘They are not here, Colonel Ochoa.’’
‘‘I want you to begin a grid search at maximum speed. We need to find that boat.’’
After the third hour, now on a southerly heading, a target appeared on radar 8 miles to the west. They turned and headed for it.
When they reached Adios, the damage was extensive. The patrol boat came alongside, a team boarded, and then went below. Nobody was aboard. The hidden GPS was intact, but had stopped transmitting when its batteries ran down.
The captain reported to Ochoa. ‘‘I’m sorry, Colonel, but nobody’s on board.’’
‘‘Anything unusual?’’ Ochoa asked.
‘‘Yes. I found a note from a boat that came alongside. The skipper, Andy Reiss, on the sailing vessel, Prophecy, U.S. registered, picked up a man and a woman. They’re bound for Ft. Myers, Florida. Adios’ boat log is missing, and I assume that Prophecy’s skipper took it with him.’’
‘‘Do you have any idea how long ago that was?’’
‘‘Yes, Colonel: Prophecy’s skipper dated the note two days ago.’’
‘‘Can you see anything on radar?’’
‘‘I’m sorry, Colonel. Any further orders before we return?’’
‘‘Sink Adios, and then I want you to remain on station until you hear from me.’’
The captain sent a sailor aboard with a large mallet. He shattered three seacocks, and Adios flooded so quickly that the sailor barely made it off as the bow started to rise. They watched with the reverence only sailors could feel for boats lost at sea as Adios slipped stern-first to her final resting place.
Raúl Castro’s aide stood, stone-faced, in his office off the Plaza de Revolution. He turned to Ochoa. ‘‘This better be important.’’
They entered through the ornate door to Castro’s office.
‘‘Please, have a seat, Colonel. The president will be with you in a moment.’’
When the side door opened and Raúl Castro entered, Ochoa snapped to attention and saluted.
To ardent Cuban Communists, Raúl Castro, age seventy-six, was a shadow of his charismatic brother. He was a vision in tan: hat, uniform, and face. He’d trimmed his grey-streaked moustache. Five stars shone from his shoulder epaulettes.
To the right of his ornate desk stood the flag of Cuba. On the left was a large photograph of Raúl’s wife.
‘‘I was so sorry to hear about your wife. It must be difficult.’’
‘‘Thank you. It was, and still is. It’s good to see a real hero of the revolution,’’ Castro said, ‘‘and someone whose memory of our times is as long as mine.’’
‘‘You’re looking well, Mr. President. How’s our great leader?’’
‘‘Getting better every day. Now, tell me what’s so urgent.’’
‘‘Have you heard about our surveillance of two young Americans who entered Santiago de Cuba by sea from Trinidad and Tobago?’’
‘‘Only passing references. You obviously have more. Please, lay it out for me.’’
Ochoa told him about the initial contact with Jorge Lopez, who had Islamic sympathies, and, perhaps, was a member of Al-Qaeda. He described the meetings, the involvement of Dr. Baños, including his assassination, and the capture and interrogation of Jorge Lopez. Finally, h
e told him about the doomed sailing vessel, Adios, its missing captain, and the fate of the two Americans aboard.
Raúl turned red. ‘‘You’re telling me we have a conspiracy begun in Cuba that has resulted in two Americans carrying a deadly virus destined for the United States.’’
‘‘Not initiated in our country, Mr. President. Al-Qaeda planned, fertilized, and incubated it in the Middle East, but hatched it in Cuba. We have no idea how the Americans became involved.’’
‘‘Who knows of this?’’
‘‘Myself, my aide, the prison warden, and the interrogator. The police, naval officers, and members of the CDR know only about the investigation.’’
‘‘What is this virus?’’
‘‘We know it’s extremely dangerous and highly contagious. The only one who knows more is Jorge Lopez, but he’s not talking, in spite of our best efforts. Please remember, Mr. President, that we have no way of knowing about American intelligence. They have eyes and ears everywhere. They may already know something about this.’’
‘‘What do you recommend, Colonel?’’
‘‘I don’t know, Señor. If this attack kills thousands of Americans and they link it to Cuba in any way…’’
Castro nodded. ‘‘Yes. Some in Washington will see this as an excuse to attack Cuba. Many have been waiting nearly a half century for such an opportunity. Colonel, what are our options?’’
‘‘In my mind, we have three choices: do nothing and hope none of it returns to our shores, warn the United States Department of Homeland Security of the threat, and hope they see it as a goodwill gesture, or, finally, find and sink the sailboat, Prophecy, before it gets into United States territorial waters. Such an act, however, would be an act of war.’’
‘‘Perhaps they might have strayed into Cuban waters?’’
‘‘That might help, although we have no way of knowing if they’ve been in communication with the United States Coast Guard.’’
Castro ran his fingers through his thick salt and pepper hair. ‘‘We’re getting too old for this, Colonel. Please remain here while I discuss this with Fidel.’’
Deadly Passage Page 14