by David Poyer
“And what does it look like now?” she’d asked him.
“Right now, two curved sides and no bottom.”
“It has no bottom?”
“Not yet. Tomás is building it upside down. The bottom will go on last. It’ll be tin. Then they’ll turn it over and put the deckhouse on, just like it shows in the book.”
“This tin bottom, it won’t leak?”
“Where they nail it, sure, but Xiomara stole inner tubes from the tractor shop. They’ll glue rubber over the nail heads to keep the water out.”
“Can they see this?” she worried. “If an airplane flies over—”
“It can’t. They cut fresh branches each time they go and put them over the boat. Julio says that’s what they taught them in the Young Pioneers. And Uncle Augustín, he says he’ll make that motor run.”
“And you? What will you do?”
“Oh, I just provided the plans,” the boy said, shrugging, but she could see how proud he was. “And I carry things and cut branches and help.”
Now she sighed. The downpour roared hollowly above her, arching off the corrugated metal roof in evenly spaced streams. It didn’t look as if it would ever stop. Settling her palm-leaf hat to shed the rain, she stepped heavily out into the yard.
Tomás had taken leadership of the plan to escape, just as she’d known he would. He’d assigned each person something to do: this one to steal plywood from the sugar mill, where they were pouring new footings; that one to get a compass; another to get gas and oil. Since she could neither go into the marsh nor carry anything heavy, he’d given her three tasks. First, collect foods that would not spoil on the trip. Two, find a map. And three, stitch rice sacks together to make a small sail.
Food—she’d found a little today. It was in the bag at her waist. The map was more important, though. They were peasants. They could go without food, even water, but without a map, they’d be lost out on the bahía. Beyond the marshlands lay the Camagüey archipelago, a labyrinthine scatter of deserted cays, islets, reefs, and lagoons that sealed off the interior of central Cuba like a great barred gate. She had to find a map … . Where had she seen one?
… Pinned up on a dirty wall … Where was her mind going? She didn’t mind being pregnant, but she hated what it did to her thoughts. Like scrambled eggs. She wished she had an egg; it would be good for the baby … .
“Compañera Lopez.”
She came to a halt, recalled to rutted earth, the smell of pig shit, the rain that soaked her thin jacket, the pain in swollen bare feet she could no longer force into boots. To the serious, slightly puffy face of Nenita Colon Marquez, wife of Rámon Colon and a member like him of Cooperative Number 179’s Committee to Defend the Revolution. Her black hair was pinned up under a uniform cap. Her wet fatigues were smeared with mud at knees and elbows, and she had a semiautomatic rifle slung over her shoulder. The muzzle was pointing down. To keep the rain out, Graciela supposed. A smear of soot on Nenita’s cheek made her coffee-colored skin look pale.
Graciela felt her knees start to quiver. A word from this woman and she’d be in a truck, on her way to the police station in Alcorcón.
“You look confused, comrade. Are you all right? Do you need a hand?”
“No, gracias, compañera.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh yes, oh yes.” She dropped her eyes to Nenita’s boots, forced a stupid smile. “You’ve been out in the mud. Militia duty?”
“A surprise recall. Fifteen minutes to dress and muster. You don’t have to go every time, but I try to do my duty when I can, with the children and my husband and all … . We get in trucks and they take us to the range for shooting practice. It makes my ears ring.” She looked at Graciela’s bare feet. “Have you had your tetanus shot?”
“Yes, comrade, but thank you for the reminder.”
“How’s the baby?”
“The baby … he’s not sitting comfortably today.”
“It’s a he, eh?”
“They say when the baby sits low, it is a male child.”
The smile ebbed from the other woman’s face, leaving a cold regard. “I was sorry to hear about your husband. I knew him only a little, but I regret his death. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, comrade.”
“I understand you’ve been buying food. Is this true, what they say in the store?”
She stood motionless. The militiawoman’s eyes held hers with a faint smile, as if she knew everything, as if she dared Graciela to admit it. Then she thought, It’s a trick; all they know is that I’ve been in the store. She shrugged. “Isn’t that allowed, to buy something to eat when you are hungry?”
“Certainly, but what’s wrong with your rations?”
“The rations are quite generous. We are well provided for. But I am embarazada, no? You’re a mother; you know how it is. One craves other things—tinned meat, chocolate.” She nodded to the bag she carried. “The little pickles in the glass jars. I think and think about these things, and finally I have to have them. And baby food, that might be gone when I need it, no?”
“But the money, compañera? Such things are expensive.”
“My husband was thrifty. I have a little money he saved from his wages.”
“Interesting,” said Marquez, “that he had money hidden away at the same time he was stealing food, isn’t it? But it’s not wise to keep cash. You should deposit it at the office. No matter how close we are to neighbors and relatives, we never know who can’t be trusted, do we? With money, with a husband—with a secret.”
Graciela kept her eyes down and her expression bovine. Was Marquez playing with her? Did she know about the midnight meeting, the plan? But if she suspected, why didn’t she just let the police know, or the pale gallego who’d spoken to Graciela in the cane? She knew she should keep on playing the idiot, act like she didn’t know anything. But instead, maybe just from being tired, a little flame flared. “Nenita, why do you ask me these questions, por favor? Is it really the business of the CDR to concern itself with a pregnant woman’s little treats?”
“Everything in the cooperative is our business, dear. But believe me, whatever your husband thought of us, we want what’s best for you. Your daughter Coralía is a dedicated socialist woman. We still remember when she addressed our Marxism-Leninism study circle. I want you to consider me a personal friend.”
“Thank you, Nenita. I appreciate that.”
The militiawoman looked around casually, as if, Graciela suddenly thought, she, too, was afraid to be overheard. The next moment, she was astonished to hear her mutter, “I’m worried, Graciela.”
“Worried, comrade? What about? We’re a little behind schedule, but—”
“I don’t mean that. I’m afraid hard times are coming.”
“They’re not going to cut the rations again, are they?”
“I mean politically. There were other prisoners released along with your husband. These other men were not as law-abiding. They were antisocial elements, enemies of the revolution. They swore to abandon their opposition, but apparently had no intention of keeping their word. They’ve burned a tobacco warehouse in Pinar del Rio. They burned a movie theater in Havana, with two hundred people inside, women and children.” She tapped the stock of the rifle. “It’s being coordinated by the CIA. That’s why we’re stepping up our training. If there’s fighting, we have to hold the line till the army arrives.”
“You think there might be trouble here?”
“Let me ask you something. If you knew people who were plotting against the state, what would you do? Would you inform the authorities?”
“What kind of plotting, Comrade Marquez?”
“I don’t know. Sabotage, rebellion, hidden arms, attempts to escape. Would you tell me?”
“Of course, compañera. Instantly.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
“No, Comrade Marquez.”
“I would be grateful. No one would ever know it was you. And it could he
lp your situation. You know, you are under a cloud now with the manager. Because of your husband.”
“Armando paid for his mistakes.”
“For stealing food, yes, but you see the cooperative no longer had his labor. They don’t lower the production quotas when our labor supply goes down.”
“Then they shouldn’t have sent him to prison.”
“That’s not the point. We’ve all gotten lax. Private vegetable plots, economic crime of all kinds, theft—a line has to be held. Otherwise, the campesinos would loot the state blind.”
“Instead, it is the campesinos who go blind.”
She could have bitten her tongue; it wasn’t smart to taunt a committee member, especially now. Sure enough, Nenita gave her a strange look. “Graciela, is something going on in Batey Number Three? What’s happened to Xiomara’s roof?”
“It was leaking. They’re replacing it with thatch; it lasts better and it’s not as noisy.”
“And I saw Tomás Guzman with his cousin a little while ago and they were carrying a sack. I asked them what was in it and they said they didn’t know. So I made them open it. Scraps of red cloth, and cooking oil. They said they’d found it and were taking it home. Well, of course it had to come from somewhere, and I had to be quite strict with them. If they try such things again, I shall have to report them.”
“Examples have to be made,” said Graciela. “Nenita, I’m getting cold; my legs hurt—”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Keeping you out in the rain, in your condition! I have some Bulgarian wine. I will open it and bring you a cupful.”
She looked after Marquez as she crossed the yard and disappeared into the office. She didn’t know what to make of what the committeewoman had said. What did it mean, there might be trouble? Marquez couldn’t mean their escape preparations. Everyone had been very careful. Even Tomás and Julio getting caught with the sack—unless you knew what it was for, you wouldn’t know it had anything to do with escape.
Or did she mean something bigger? “Counterrevolutionary activity”—everybody knew about the rebellions in the Escambray and the Sierra Maestra. The army had put them down—killed hundreds of peasants, relocated thousands. Could that happen here?
The thought of the army, war, killing made her feel faint. She began picking her way through the mud again. We have to leave, she thought. Maybe we’ll die, but we have to leave as soon as we can.
Wet, fatigued, and cold, she turned onto the lonely rainswept road that led to her batey.
But that thought, that she might not be here much longer, made the familiar muddy road look new to her as she trudged heavily along. It gave the glistening soil, the wide fields scattered with the tiny green shoots of new cane, such bittersweet beauty that she found herself wanting to cry. Her tears and her sweat had fallen in those fields; years of her life had passed in them. This was her home, and poor as it was, she would not leave it without regret.
Then the baby kicked and she thought quickly to it: I will tell you of this one day, of cane fields and mangroves. But you will not eat the bread of slavery, to fear and obey, to work all your life for distant masters. Your father fought till he could fight no more. I owe him that, that his last wish for you be granted, even if it has to be in a foreign land.
Either this child would be born in freedom or it would never see the light of the sun.
17
U.S. Naval Base, Charleston
THE sun burns through the noon sky in a blaze like a near-death experience. Below it lies a ship. From across the pier, through chain-link fences, a renewed burst of cheering and waving comes thin and already faint from three hundred throats. Kids flourish flags, pretending to one another they can send semaphore. Women wave with their free hands as hip-slung babies suck their thumbs. Carefully made-up girlfriends twist glossy fingernails into metal mesh, searching the ranks that line the rails. A nearly invisible rush of brown-tinted gas shimmers above the stacks. On the bridge, a knot of men lean out, looking down on it all.
On the starboard wing, standing with the captain, the starboard lookout, and two phone talkers, Dan drummed his fingers on the varnished ash bolted on top of the splinter shield.
Where the hell was the tech rep? The quarterdeck had taken a call last night that he was flying in, would be aboard before they got under way. But since then, nothing. Leighty had held up getting under way for nearly an hour now. Now he turned from the crowd, shaking his head, and said to Dan, “I guess he’s not coming. We’d better get out in the stream.”
“Aye aye, sir. Fantail: take in the brow. Forecastle, Fantail, Midships: Single up all lines. Engine Room: Stand by to answer all bells.” And a little while later, after sweeping his eyes down the pier one last time, he ordered, “All engines ahead one-third. Ship’s whistle, one prolonged blast.”
“Under way. Shift colors.”
The forecastle detail, spotless in summer whites, puts their backs to the last line. A moment later, the eye splice slithers through the chocks, dripping. At the bullnose, a petty officer hauls down the jack, folding it with quick stiff motions like a Nutcracker Suite toy soldier. Others detach the jackstaff toggles. As they finish, the deck division falls into ranks, facing where slowly, slowly the space of water between USS Barrett and the land widens. The sun glitters across the murky water. From other quarterdecks, other ships, men watch with professional interest, and something else: a reluctant fascination, affected by beauty almost against their will.
In an ancient festival, the people of Venice tossed a gold ring into the waves. The most beautiful thing they could make, they gave to the sea.
To the sea …
“Navigator recommends come right to course one-seven-five.”
Dan checked to starboard, then up and down the channel. It was clear—no ships, no barges, no pleasure craft. The radio, set to the harbor channel, hissed unmodulated, a voiceless somnolent sibilance. They had a different pilot today, not Papa Jack. Dan had told him he’d try taking it out without direction. The pilot had nodded and went out on the port wing. He was out there now enjoying a cigar; the men inside the pilothouse could smell it, that and the damp rich smell of the river … . God, it was nice being able to see. And slack tide, they didn’t have to fight the damn current this time.
From his chair, Leighty murmured, “Boot her in the ass. Get out of here, Mr. Lenson.”
“Aye, sir. Right fifteen degrees rudder, steady course one-seven-five. All engines ahead standard, indicate pitch and rpm for fifteen knots.”
Barrett accelerated smoothly and stood tall down the channel, rendering honors as she passed the senior officer present aboard USS Shenandoah. The buoys slid by like street signs, and after the forward marker of the Mount Pleasant range passed down the side, Dan turned the conn over to Horseheads. A cannon boomed out from Fort Sumter, and they rendered honors again, in case it was meant for them. The Park Service ran Sumter now; maybe they were doing some kind of historical thing.
The long arms of the jetties released them, and Barrett nodded slowly, remembering the rhythm of the sea. Then they, too, lay astern, and the sky fell unhindered to meet the dark flat blue. Dan stood on the wing as the pilot climbed down into the pilot boat. He looked up, gave them a casual salute, and Dan tapped one off to him. The boat cast off and curved away, throwing spray, and he told Horseheads, “Put her on base course and speed, what the navigator recommends. Make sure you run the dead-reckoning line out well ahead and check it on the chart.”
Horseheads nodded and went inside. A little while later, Dan watched the bow swing to a southerly heading. He went in then, too, and looked over the charts.
Morris, the chief quartermaster, pointed out their track: a thousand-mile great circle course from Charleston to the Caicos, where they’d alter course southwest to run through the Windward Passage to Guantánamo, on the south coast of Cuba. “Twelve hundred miles,” said Morris. “Speed of advance twenty knots, take us three days.”
Dan studied the Bahamas, the shallow sound
s and islands where Columbus had struck land—San Salvador or Eleuthera or some other island, but somewhere in there the Old World had ground its keel on the sand of the New. He picked up dividers. They’d pass twenty-three miles off Punta Maisi, the eastern tip of Communist Cuba. He looked around the pilothouse, studied the surface plot—two contacts well astern, another with a closest point of approach of 11,000 yards—then went out on the wing again.
He stayed there for half an hour, letting Horseheads get a taste of being in charge. He leaned on the splinter shield and watched the sea go by fifty feet down, the deep summer blue-green of the Atlantic, frothed by Barrett’s skin friction as she drove through it.
The land had dropped out of sight when the radioman came up with the message that a helicopter was inbound to them, two hundred pounds of cargo and one passenger.
DR. Henry S. Shrobo looked down from the hurtling aircraft, staring through the plastic window as beneath him land gave way to a wrinkled, blazing sea. He’d used the bathroom three times waiting to take off, but now he needed it again. He squeezed his eyes closed. It wasn’t healthy to compress the sphincter, but he didn’t seem to have a choice. He was pretty sure there was no bathroom anywhere in the vibrating aluminum cylinder that curved now in a clattering circle out over the glitter. Sunlight flickered over his sweating face. The way the men in flight suits had pushed him into his seat when he started to ask a question, roughly strapped him in when he tried to explain he needed out again just one more time … well, he just didn’t think he’d better unbuckle the straps.
It was hard to believe he’d been at work yesterday, secure in his routine, and that now he was hurtling outward to sea off South Carolina. Headed farther than that, to Cuba. The first hint was when he’d been asked to step into the office of the commanding officer, Fleet Combat Direction Systems Support Activity, Dam Neck, Virginia.
“Hank, I’m sorry to have to say this, but it sounds like our prototype ACDADS has developed a glitch. Who’ve you got available for a little on-scene consulting?”