Dire Straits

It's 1991. Derek Stillwater, fresh out of Army Special Forces, is on his
first undercover mission for the Central Intelligence Agency -
infiltrate a pharmaceutical company in Cuba to determine if they are
manufacturing biological weapons. Nothing in Cuba is as it seems - and
neither is Derek's mission. Soon Derek is on the run from Cuban
intelligence with only one avenue of escape - a stolen kayak, heading
into the teeth of a storm on the Straits of Cuba.

A DEREK STILLWATER NOVELLA

Dire Straits

Copyright ©2012 by Mark Terry

OROX Books 2012

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

Cover art: Judy Bullard, Jaebee Creations
eBook design:
the eBook Artisans

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“And if we are able thus to attack an inferior force with a superior one, our opponents will be in dire straits.”

—Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

The stolen kayak rode
hard in the swells. Derek Stillwater slouched in the cockpit, gazing south toward Cuba only a few miles behind him. He was fairly certain he had avoided the Cuban Navy, but he couldn’t count on it. There were boat lights out there and he could only hope that a kayak wouldn’t show up on their radar before he made it to international waters.

It was almost midnight and dark roiling clouds blotted out the stars. The clouds didn’t bode well. A storm was brewing. A big one.

It was approximately one hundred miles of open water, sharks, and bad weather to cross the Florida Straits back to the U.S. Not to mention that the Cuban government would like to catch him, arrest him for espionage, torture him, try him—probably in that order—and have him shot by firing squad, no last requests, no hand-rolled Cohiba cigar.

He dug in his paddle, keeping the dark smudge and dim lights of Havana to his back.

Five Days Earlier

The flight from Toronto, Canada landed at the José Martí International Airport southwest of Havana, clunking down heavily on the runway. In the airport, Derek Stillwater, wearing a summer weight tan suit, presented his passport.

The Cuban inspector studied it. “Señor Peter Hamill.”

Derek nodded.

“The purpose of your trip?”

“Business.”

“Your business?”

“I’m with a biotechnology company located in Toronto, Ontario.”

“Canada.”

“Yes.”

“Where will you be staying?”

“The Riviera Hotel.”

“Length of stay?”

“One week, two if necessary.”

After some suspicious mulling, the inspector stamped his passport and allowed him into the country. It was 1992. The Soviet Union was in financial disarray and their relationship and economic support to Cuba had become tenuous at best. Dr. Derek Stillwater, PhD, fresh out of the U.S. Army after Operation Desert Storm, was attached to the Central Intelligence Agency, an expert on biological and chemical warfare and terrorism.

The U.S. was concerned about Cuba’s biotech industry. Derek and other analysts believed Cuba was developing biological weapons. Derek’s job was to confirm it.

Outside the airport, Derek stopped to let the tropical breeze kiss his cheeks and ruffle his hair. The air was a little smoggy—there were surprisingly more cars than he had expected, although many of them seemed to be U.S. vintage 1950s and ’60s—he saw a 1956 Chevy Bel Air, the only one he could recognize, but there were plenty of others.

A line of taxis waited. He strolled toward a white cab, a Volkswagen. His Spanish was slim and not part of his cover anyway. The cabbie quickly shifted over to English and they negotiated a price to the Riviera Hotel.

The Riviera Hotel was a high-rise in blue and white, vaguely reminiscent of 1950s architecture, or what Derek thought might merely be Pre-Revolution Glitz. He checked in at the desk. Just as he was turning over his passport, someone behind him cleared his throat.

“Señor Hamill?”

Derek turned. The speaker was a short Cuban man wearing dark slacks, a white shirt, and what looked like a cashmere sport coat. “Sí? Who are you?”

The man held out his hand. “I am Juan Osorio. I will be your liaison with the Centro de Biotecnología Cuba.” The CBC, the company Derek was to inspect because the CIA believed it was a front for the development of offensive biological weapons. And what were the odds, he thought—was Señor Osorio actually with the CBC or somehow affiliated with the Dirección de Inteligencia, Cuba’s intelligence organization? The safe money bet on Juan Osorio being with the DI.

“Pleased to meet you,” Derek said, shaking his hand.

Sitting in the hotel
bar, Derek took a sip of his Tinima Bay beer. Juan Osorio had ordered rum. Osorio was trying to be a friendly Cuban, all Caribbean charm and manners, but Derek thought the man’s humor never made it to his eyes and his body language indicated more than a modest portion of unease.

The bar had a very Caribbean feel—padded chairs in orange and blue and peach, tropical plants, granite-topped tables, walls painted with murals of Cubo-African women carrying baskets on their heads in front of the beach.

“So, Señor Osorio,” Derek said. “Thanks for meeting me. I wasn’t aware that anyone from CBC was meeting me here. I have a meeting with Arlo Benita tomorrow morning, but I’m sure you know that.”

“Sí,” Osorio said with a broad smile. “We will send a driver to pick you up and deliver you to the facility. How does nine o’clock sound?”

It sounds, Derek thought, like the DI wanted to keep an eye on him. He decided to test that out. “Thank you for the courtesy,” he said. “But I’m sure I can make my way there on my own. I’ll have the concierge call me a cab.”

“But I insist,” Osorio said. “We take care of our business partners here in Cuba. You are our guest.”

“Well, if you put it that way. Of course. Your English is very good, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Osorio said with a nod. “Do you speak Spanish, Señor?”

“Not really, no.”

Something moved in Osorio’s expression, something rippling beneath the surface. “So you will be needing a translator tomorrow?”

“Perhaps. I was assured that there were several people on the CBC’s executive team that spoke excellent English and there would be no problem.”

“Of course, of course,” Osorio said. “But I believe this can be helped. We will provide a translator.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket and checked something, nodding. “Sí. She will do. Along with your driver, Coro Gomez will assist you with any translations and anything else you might need.”

A minder. “Gracias,” Derek said with a nod. Off to his left he saw the bartender, a tall, slender Cuban woman with dark hair streaked with blond highlights, catch his eye. The Company had indicated there would be a contact at the bar of the hotel who would help him with messaging. He showed no signs he had seen anything.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Señor Hamill?”

No, you’ve done plenty.
“No, I think I’m good,” Derek said.

Osorio finished his rum and said, “Shall I accompany you to your room? Do you need anything?”

“I think I’ll finish my beer. And thank you. You’ve been more than generous.”

“I hope you enjoy your stay in Cuba. Will you be dining in the hotel this evening or going out to see the city’s sights? We have many wonderful nightclubs.”

Wouldn’t you like to know?
“I haven’t decided yet. I have some business papers to go over, but it would be a shame to come to Cuba and not explore a little bit.”

“Very good. Your ride will be here at 8:30 in the morning. Have a good evening.”

Derek watched Osorio disappear. A few minutes later the bartender drifted his way and asked if he needed anything. He said he was fine. She left a bill for him to sign and returned to her post at the bar.

Sipping the beer, which had a mild fruitiness to it, Derek idly glanced at the bill. He was picking up the tab for Osorio, he saw. In addition, the bartender, whose name was María, had underlined her name with two lines, apparently for emphasis. It was one of a series of codes he had memorized. It indicated he was to pick up a message at a dead drop after 7:00 that evening in Old Havana.

And so it begins, he thought …

In his suite on the twelfth floor, Derek first did a sweep for listening devices. Turning on the TV loud to a Spanish-language soap opera, he started with the telephone. In his suitcase he kept a small utility tool, a Swiss Army Knife with a compass, knife blade, screwdriver, corkscrew and other handy tools on it. First he dismantled the receiver.

Sure enough, there was a small listening device. He left it where it was and put the phone back together. He found three listening devices overall—one in the phone, one in a lamp in the sitting area, and one beneath the desk.

He left them all where he had found them. He didn’t intend to hold any conversations of importance in the room. His biggest concern was that the listening devices were a way to keep track of his comings and goings. The second biggest concern was that his cover was already blown and they knew he was an American in the employ of the CIA. Hopefully the Cubans were just worried about any northerner paying a visit to one of their biotechnology firms and were displaying a fairly typical Communist level of paranoia about it.

It was also possible that there were other devices and pinhole cameras that he hadn’t located, so it was best to be innocuous and boring.

Dropping his briefcase hard on the desk, he opened it and pulled out a sheaf of documents related to a possible research and development relationship between the Centro de Biotecnología Cuba and Ontario, Canada-based TLM Biotechnology, Inc. Fidel Castro and Cuba’s economy might be a train wreck by many world standards, but the quality of the country’s healthcare system, including pharmaceuticals and biotechnology, were some of the most robust in the world. Go figure.

TLM Biotechnology, Inc. was a legitimate biotechnology firm founded and operated by a pair of college friends, one American, one Canadian. They were on very good terms with the Central Intelligence Agency, providing a number of their non-official cover (NOC) agents with background to travel internationally under the guise of various business aspects of the biotechnology and pharmaceutical industry. TLM Biotechnology had a very firm footing in Central and South America, parts of Asia, and was working on developing business relationships in the Middle East.

Humming to himself, hoping to annoy anybody listening, Derek spent some time going through the paperwork and making the occasional notes. It was busywork. Primarily he was refreshing his memory with his cover for TLM.

He took a shower, put on slacks and a light sport shirt and prepared for an evening exploring Old Havana and generally acting like a tourist. He also wanted to put real landmarks in his head about his various escape routes, should they become necessary.

Heading for the door, he was brought up short by a knock. Raising an eyebrow, he cautiously opened the door. An attractive young Cuban woman stood in the hallway. She had flowing curly black hair, a heart-shaped face, and lush red lips. She wore a white blouse and dark short skirt, feet in heels, a leather purse over one shoulder.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello! I am Coro Gomez. I’m your guide and translator. I thought I would come by, introduce myself, and show you around the city.”

Derek blinked, reset his emotional flight plan and smiled. “What a coincidence! I was just going out. Nice to meet you. I’m Peter Hamill.”

The kayak bumped and wallowed. The swells and waves were growing larger, ten and twelve-foot waves that would cause problems in a small boat, let alone a ten-foot-long kayak. Derek struggled to keep the bow of the kayak facing the oncoming seas, squinting as waves splashed over the bow into the open cockpit, soaking him to the skin.

Something bumped the kayak from below. Looking into the darkness, he saw little except fluorescent froth in the dark night.

Scanning the horizon, Derek felt his stomach clench. It was so dark he couldn’t see land. Fumbling in his pocket, he removed his Swiss Army Knife. Built into the handle was a small compass. From another pocket he withdrew a tiny flashlight, which could be a very dangerous thing to turn on with the Cuban Navy possibly on the lookout for him. Nonetheless, he needed to get his bearings.

Briefly turning on the light to check the compass, he saw that he was now facing east. If he kept going east he might hit the Bahamas or the Turks and Calcos Islands. Or he would miss them entirely and find himself in the North Atlantic with the next stop being Africa.

The wind, which was strengthening, seemed to be coming from the east. He hoped it was just a storm. Not a tropical storm or a hurricane. He also hoped it wasn’t bearing down on him.

As it was, if a storm surged out of the east, he might get blown deep into the Gulf of Mexico.

In the precious seconds he had taken to stop paddling and check the compass, the kayak had spun in the waves, turning broadside to the swells. The kayak tilted precariously. Derek gripped the paddle with white knuckles, urgently stroking to bring the kayak around into the wave.

He felt the world tip. He dug in hard. It felt like paddling cement. Then he was over the crest of the wave and crashing down into the trough on the other side. The kayak wallowed as water splashed into the cockpit.

Fishing around behind him, he prayed the owner of the kayak had kept some sort of kayak skirt. He had been too busy trying to evade pursuit to worry too much about it. He gripped a piece of nylon and sent up a little prayer to the gods in thanks. Also in the cockpit of the kayak was a metal soup can. He contemplated that a moment, dropped it by his feet and went about squirming into the spray skirt and clamping it down around the cockpit of the kayak.

The kayak bumped again.

Glancing over to his left, he saw a dorsal fin, black upon black, knife through the water just feet away from his boat.

But before he could worry about the shark, another massive wave caught the kayak and sent it spinning.