by Eddie Jones
It didn’t matter now. She’d seen the casualties of complicated relationships and she wanted no part of it.
She slipped on a pair of cuffed shorts and a teal-green tank top. Tucking her hair through the band of a ball cap, she dropped her things on the bench seat in the main salon and joined Sonny in the cockpit.
Their wake slowly spread behind, dissipating on the flat sea marred by tentacles of rain sweeping toward them. Overhead, the sun still blazed bright, warming her face, neck and arms. “Aren’t we going back for the tanks?”
“Rather not chance it.”
“But my deposit.”
“I can turn around if you want. Maybe get caught in that,” he replied flatly, eyeing the approaching storm. “Makes no difference to me.”
She dropped onto a seat cushion. Closing her eyes, she let the motion of the boat rock away the tension she sensed between them. For a long time she listened as the outboard purred. For a guy dying of cancer, he seemed to be in great shape, although seemingly annoyed with her.
“Sonny?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry if I hurt you, but you’ve always known where I stood on that sort of thing.”
Disdain flashed across his face. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been dumped before. Always bounce back.” He looked towards the front of the boat. “Want to pull out that whatchamacallit? Spinner?”
“I doubt this boat has a spinnaker, if that’s what you’re referring to.”
“That the sail that looks like a balloon?”
She nodded.
“And that sail up there, it spins out?”
“Yes, but it’s called a—”
“So it’s a spinner. You want to unspin it or not?”
“Let’s just sit and not talk for while. Can we do that?”
Thunder boomed in the distance, causing her to look back. The clouds were using up more of the sky, darkening the water. A brooding sense of dread settled over her.
Why is it, Lord, that in the midst of such beauty I let the smallest worries pull me down?
There was perhaps a half-hour before the rain hit. Once they lost visibility, they’d have no way to find the island. Anna retrieved the chart from the nav station and spread it on the seat beside her.
“How long you been at it?”
“Um?”
“Working for the government? How long?”
She drew a line from their position and marked it with a compass rose, giving her the heading. “Almost twenty years. I started right out of college. You?”
“I don’t work for the government.”
“I meant how long have you been doing whatever it is you do?”
“Sales? Too long. I took a job in the warehouse after I got out of the Army. Got hired unloading trucks then moved up to assistant warehouse manager. Eventually, they sent me inside to customer service. When an opening came available in outside sales, they took a chance on me. I’ve been a toilet paper salesman ever since.”
She reached around the bulkhead, retrieved a bag of fruit, and then jabbed her thumb into an orange: “You can make money doing that?”
“Sure. Everybody needs my product.”
“Any good at it?”
“Salesman-of-the-Year three years running. Got the sales awards hanging in my cubicle. The plaques read, ‘Success begins at the bottom.’”
Smiling, she licked the juice from her fingers.
“Look, I know it may not be as exciting as working for a government spy agency, but at least I’m good at what I do.”
“And you think I’m not?”
“I didn’t lose a congressman or a cruise ship.”
“None of that’s my fault.”
“Well, it sure wasn’t mine.”
“Keep this up and you can swim to that island.”
“You’re the one who wanted to talk about careers.”
“I’m a data analyst for a government intelligence agency, for crying out loud. My boss’s boss answers to the President of the United States. I’d say my job is just a little more important than selling potty paper.”
“Sure. That’s what you say now. But wait’ll you’re in a restroom and the tissue dispenser is empty. Then you’ll wish you had someone like me around.”
“I hope not.”
The outboard sputtered. Sonny tilted the gas can and wedged a foot under one end. “What exactly does a data analyst do?”
“Intercepts enemy radio and satellite communications.”
“Have you ever had a field assignment? I mean other than this one?”
“Sure. Once. Right after I joined the department. The Director asked me to fly to Bogotá. I thought I was meeting a member of the Columbian cartel. Word was we were bringing him back to a safe house.”
“There really are such places?”
“Safe houses? Sure. We have a property management group that does nothing but oversee homeowner associations in large subdivisions. You wouldn’t believe how many government informants and expatriated KGB officials are living in suburban America. Part of my job is to make sure the utilities and infrastructure of these subdivisions meet our standards so, you know, we can monitor the residents.”
“Everyone?”
“Can’t take a chance that a government witness will go to a neighbor’s house and try to contact someone on the outside.”
“So Big Brother really is watching us.”
“In more ways than you think. Anyway, the subdivisions we use are very upscale. Pools, tennis courts, golf courses. You know, your typical upper middle class neighborhood.”
“And all the people living there are government informants? Ex-drug traffickers, mafia members, spies seeking asylum? That sort of thing?”
“Heavens, no. That’d be too obvious. Most are just regular citizens like you and me. We have developments all over the country.”
“But doesn’t that mean you’re spying on average citizens?”
“In the war on terrorism, everyone’s a foot soldier. Most people would rather lose a little privacy, than their family to a suicide bomber. So, anyway, on that first assignment my driver met me at the Bogotá airport and drove me into the country where he dropped me off at a sidewalk café. That’s where I was supposed to wait for my contact. The thing about Bogotá is it’s hot. You wouldn’t think so because it’s up in the Andes Mountains, but it’s on the equator. And the locals, they don’t move too fast. Or speak very good English. So it was a slow, hot day and I was nervous, but after about an hour the mule arrives.”
“You mean the guy packing the drugs,” said Sonny.
“No, I mean a real live burro pulling a wooden cart. The guy driving the rig looked like Juan Valdez from the coffee commercial on TV. He wore a wide sombrero and had a bushy mustache. Turns out a lot of Columbians look like that. He parked right in front of the café and tossed a package of the product onto my table. It looked like a brown sock stuffed with sand.”
Sonny tipped the can a little higher with his foot. “Cocaine?”
“Would you just let me tell the story?”
The outboard coughed. Sonny squeezed the bulb in the fuel line.
“I didn’t know what to do so I cut a slit in the bag and tasted some. My heart began to race, pupils dilated. I felt all jumpy. My face was pouring sweat. That’s when I untied the red bandana holding back my hair. Big mistake. Next thing I know the driver’s sombrero went flying past my head, hit the wall of the café and fell beside my chair. I look down and saw blood all over my sneakers. The driver lay across his mule with a dime-sized bullet hole in his head.”
“What’d you do?”
“I grabbed the goods and ran. I’ve never been so scared in my life. Caught a ride back to the airport and hopped a flight to Panama City, changed planes in San Jose, Costa Rica and finally touched down in Dulles early the next morning. From there I took a taxi straight to headquarters.
The Director wanted to debrief me personally. I didn’t even have time to run home and sh
ower. When I walked into that meeting, I was a mess. My hair was in knots, my stomach, too.
You know what the Director says when I show up? He says, ‘Good job, Fortune, but all I wanted was a fresh cup of espresso, not a coffee war.’ Turns out he’s a coffee connoisseur.”
“So the stuff in the bag? It wasn’t drugs?”
“Just dark, rich, freshly ground Columbian beans. I felt really bad about it, too. Removing my bandana was a signal to our sniper across the street that I was in distress. That’s when I decided to become a data analyst. I’m not cut out for the ‘coke and swagger’ of a drug enforcement agent.”
“But now here you are on assignment, anyway.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?”
The engine sputtered, sped up, sputtered some more, and then stopped. Sonny removed the cap and peeked inside. He pulled the starter cord a few times then stretched out on the seat, linking his hands behind his head. “You want to try that spinner, now.”
The sea was dead calm, but it wouldn’t be for long. A curtain of black was about to draw over them.
She threw the rest of her orange overboard. “I’ll get the oars. You close the forward hatch.”
He started to stand but she grabbed his wrist. “And just for the record, I’m glad you went to all this trouble. It means a lot knowing that you still care.”
28
Things were tense in the White House Situation Room. The Skins were trailing by three touchdowns and had yet to cross mid-field. Empty corrugated pizza boxes lay scattered on a long table, surrounded by paper plates stained with tomato sauce, melted cheese and garlic.
Tommy set his half-empty soda on a paper napkin and stifled a belch. Folding his hands across his stomach he rocked back in his chair, surveying the now-familiar faces in the room—the Secretaries of State, Treasury, and Defense, Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Director of National Intelligence, National Security Advisor, President’s Chief of Staff, and the Assistant to the President for Economic Policy. Noticeably absent from the group was the Vice President. Why, Tommy didn’t know. I could get accustomed to serving as the President’s counter-intelligence advisor.
The President aimed the remote at the far wall and clicked off the game just as his National Security Advisor reached for the last slice of pepperoni pizza.
The President swiveled in his chair towards the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Well, Fritz, where are we with this thing? And make it quick. Half time doesn’t last that long.”
“Our battle fleet is in position in the Old Bahama Channel. We have gunships stationed from Key West to Haiti. The 4th Fleet is deployed in the Yucatan Channel.”
“How are we on ground forces?”
“Our extraction team is in a less-than-plush resort on Cockroach Cay awaiting your orders.”
“Any casualties?”
“None.”
“What do we know about our target?”
The Director of National Intelligence aimed a laser pointer at the wall display.
“Sir, we have confirmation that the Wicked Witch left Cockroach Cay late last night. Apparently, the captain and crew were unaware that the hurricane had reversed course. Satellite images show her docked at this small island”—a dot quivered on a grainy image of the gray-blue aquatic terrain—”about fifty miles from the coast of Cuba. Cay Sal Amanda. More of an atoll than island, really.”
The President turned toward Tommy. “What’s your general assessment, Tim? You’ve been keeping tabs on the Congressman. Think he’s gone over to the other side? Is that why he’s down there leading a bunch of geriatric retirees on a love-boat cruise into Cuban waters?”
Tommy sat up straight. “It’s possible, Mr. President. I mean, the island is one of the cruise ship’s stops. Has a private beach for luaus, and volleyball games. So it’s possible this was just their final stop before heading back to the States. But then again, we know Boggs is gaining in the polls and seems to be suddenly flush with cash. I can’t imagine he would knowingly risk a US confrontation with the Cuban navy unless he had a good reason. We think he does.”
“Those launch codes?” asked the President, nodding knowingly.
The President and Tommy had discussed just this subject extensively on their walk down to the Sit Room, with the President coaching Tommy on how to pitch the assessment for maximum shock affect.
“Afraid so, sir. We have key-hole images of silos in Cuba that looked to be loaded and ready. We think Boggs is prepared to trade government secrets for the Cuban-American vote.”
“Does he still have the codes?” asked the President. “Wasn’t there some mention in an earlier briefing that he’d misplaced his cell phone?”
“To our knowledge it’s back on his person, sir,” said Tommy, fudging a little. “But we haven’t been able to verify that. Our agent has gone dark.”
The President turned in his chair and addressed his National Security Advisor. “Connie, any thoughts on why the Cubans would risk all out war with the United States over some silly launch codes? Do they even have the wherewithal to know how to use them?”
“Regime change most likely, sir. Castro’s old and his brother lacks gravitas. The people are fed up with eating rice, beans, and banana burritos. They’re demanding wholesale changes. We think Boggs is looking to consolidate the south Florida Cuban vote with the farther south Cuban vote.”
“You mean like merge the two regions?”
“Precisely.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Connie. But isn’t Orlando and points south, still part of America?”
“In name only, Mr. President. We lost control of the culture years ago. There’s a reason residents in Miami call it Little Havana. The cultural line of demarcation actually begins just south of Daytona. If it wasn’t for NASCAR, race week, college spring break and biker’s week, we’d have already lost Daytona, too. Orlando is sort of the melting pot. Hispanics, Anglos, African-Americans, Jamaicans, Seminoles, Gators, Buccaneers, Golden Knights and, of course, Mickey Mouse.
“Now if you were to draw a line from Tampa Bay to Cape Canaveral you’d see there’s a lot of swamp land in that area. It’s part of the Everglades National Park which, in Florida, is a euphemism for “undeveloped land.” We’ve run simulations a number of different ways and they all point to the same conclusion. A sudden shift in the tectonic plate and south Florida would break for the Democrats—er—I mean away.”
“And align itself with Cuba,” concluded the President.
“Along with other left-leaning Central and South American countries.”
“What about the Keys, Connie?”
“They’d most likely remain independent since they’re already sort of like a country of their own.”
“Fritz. What’s your take on this? Is what she’s suggesting possible?”
“Sir, a large blast around the Lake Wales area would most likely send the bottom half of the state skidding south. We’ve run our own war games using similar scenarios and saw the same results.”
“So what are we looking at here, boys and girls? Is Boggs looking to plant depth charges along Interstate 4 and make a play as the king-maker in a new Cuba/Miami alliance?”
Not to be left out of the discussion, the Secretary of Defense added, “He may have his eyes on a bigger dish, sir. The launch of our missile could have just been a test to see if he could shoot off something more than his mouth. I’m guessing the next target will be in our own backyard. Possibly, New York, LA or Cleveland.”
“Why Cleveland?”
“A strike there would send a sign that no city is safe. If Boggs can bring the Russians and Chinese in on the deal, we could be looking at some serious heat breathing down our necks.”
“Tim.” The President had a look of concern on his face. “What are our chances of flipping Boggs back to our side before he can do any real damage?”
“Hard to say, Mr. President. He may be getting help from the
outside.”
“You mean that terrorist fellow you mentioned earlier, Martinez.”
Tommy nodded thoughtfully.
“Connie, any chance Boggs is working this thing alone?”
“It’s possible, Mr. President, but unlikely. Everyone in this room knows he doesn’t have the brains to pull off a stunt like this.”
“But who in their right mind would—except for Martinez—come to the aid of a bungling presidential candidate like Boggs?”
“I’d hate to venture a guess, Mr. President.”
“Well humor me, Connie. Try.”
“North Koreans, South Americans, West Africans, factions in East Timor…”
“Sort of leaves us with our backs against the goal line now, doesn’t it? Speaking of which,” said the President, tapping his watch. “Halftime’s ‘bout over. I say we reconvene at the end of the third quarter to see if things have improved.”
“You mean in case we catch a break,” said the Secretary of Defense, “and nab Boggs before he does anything stupid?”
“I meant in the unlikely event the Skins rally and actually score. Class dismissed!”
29
Sonny lay on his stomach, staring into the water as the shadow of the sailboat floated over the sand. The steady slap of his oar pulling the boat forward echoed across the water. He paused, back aching, arms burning with soreness. Less than a hundred yards away lay a sand bar curving out from the island. On the crest of the beige berm, a gull stood on one leg, its black head tucked under white feathers. Evergreens grew near the water’s edge.
“Don’t rest too long,” Anna called from the back of the boat. “Wouldn’t want to get caught out here in that.”
He followed her gaze. Long dark clouds scudded swiftly towards them, turning what remained of the blue sky black.
“Just need to work out the soreness,” he said, sliding under the lifeline, “and cool off.” He rolled into the water and sank, drifting under the hull, past the rudder, and away from the boat. When he emerged he saw Anna standing in the cockpit, hands on her hips, the tops of her shoulders pink against the tank-top’s green straps.