Lunatics (18 page)

CHAPTER 36

Jeffrey

I've been to some pretty wild parties.

I was at a wedding once where, at around the three-hour mark in the reception, the best man went up to the bandleader and requested “Horse with No Name,” and the bandleader said he was sorry but the band didn't have that particular tune in their repertoire, and the best man—a large individual—picked up the bandleader by his tuxedo jacket and said, “It's two fucking chords.” That was all the encouragement that the bandleader needed. The band started playing a half-assed version of “A Horse with No Name,” at which point the back door to the reception hall burst open and the rest of the groomsmen came in leading
an actual
horse
.

I still don't know where they got it. The reception hall was in Weehawken, New Jersey, which is not exactly the frontier. But wherever they found it, the horse was funny as hell, at least at first. After a while, the groomsmen got tired of holding it and went back to the bar, which meant the horse was just wandering around unsupervised. You almost forgot it was there. You'd be going to take a leak, and you'd see it grazing on the buffet lasagna, and you'd go, “Oh yeah, the horse.”

Finally the owner of the hall showed up, and as you can imagine he was pissed. He wanted the horse out of there, and he wanted more money, and the father of the bride, a lawyer, was shouting that there was nothing in the sales contract that said you
couldn't
have a horse. Finally the police came, and they were trying to grab the horse, but the groomsmen lifted the groom onto its back and the horse threw him off, breaking his collarbone, and the horse started freaking out, barging around, knocking over tables, and the bride and her mom were screaming, and it basically turned into a riot. A bunch of people got arrested, and the father of the bride got Tasered. That's when I left. I never did hear what happened to the horse. I do know the marriage lasted less than a year.

My point is, I've seen some parties. But I never saw a party like the ones the Cubans put on the night we won the Battle of Havana. We wound up eating a victory meal in a huge marble-floor room with potted palms around the sides and a big long table in the middle. Every man at the table had a bottle of rum and a glass in front of him. Guys were getting up and giving speeches in Spanish, and at the end they'd hold up a glass and yell, “Secure the radius!” We'd all stand up and gulp down the rum, and then—here's where the party went to the next level—guys would fire their weapons at the ceiling. Of course the bullets ricocheted right back down, which you might think would put a damper on the shooting, but that's because you've never partied with Cuban revolutionaries who have just overthrown a regime. What they did, as soon as they toasted the radius and squeezed off some rounds, was dive under the table, which fortunately was a hardwood, I'm guessing walnut. We'd all be crouched under there, laughing like maniacs, with bullets hitting the table above us and the floor around us. It was probably still risky, but after the seventh or eighth glass of rum nobody gave a shit.

Speaking of which: I still had diarrhea. You'll see in a minute why this was important. I think it was from that
quesadilla de harina de yuca rellena con camarones y queso
crap. All I knew was, all of a sudden I needed to get to a toilet, bad. So I stood up to leave the table. When the Cubans saw this, they thought I was about to make a speech, so
they
all stood up. So I waved my arms like
nonono
, and they all waved
their
arms
nonono
. So I pointed to my ass to indicate that I had a medical condition, and they thought this was hilarious. They all pointed to
their
asses, and then they all started yelling “YI-YI-YI!” And then some idiot yelled “Secure the radius!”

I knew what was coming next, so I started running for the door. I got maybe three steps before somebody tackled me, and if you have been following this story you know by now there is only one asshole who would be asshole enough to be the asshole in question.

“IT'S NOT SAFE OUT HERE!” he's yelling. Like I didn't notice the bullets bouncing all around us.

“I KNOW THAT, FUCKNUT,” I informed him. “I HAVE TO GET TO A BATHROOM.”

And he goes, “Oh.”

Dipshit.

So he gets off me, and now we're both running toward the doors at the end of the hall. There were a few stray bullets still pinging around, and the Cubans were still under the table, so I don't think they'd noticed yet that we were missing. As I ran through the doorway, I thought I saw the potted palms on either side moving, but I was concentrating on getting to the toilet. Suddenly
WHAM!
the doors slammed shut behind us. I looked back and saw why the palms had been moving: the Salamanders.

Two of them were wrapping a chain around the door handles to lock in the Cubans. The others grabbed Horkman and me, picked us up and started running. I tried to explain that I needed a bathroom, but they weren't listening. They hustled us down some stairs and through some hallways, and then all of a sudden we were outside in an alley. There were two cars waiting there, old American ones. The Salamanders threw us into the backseat of one and we took off. It was nighttime; they drove on side streets, with the lights off.

“What's the meaning of this?” said Horkman, because that's the kind of asshole thing he says.

The oldest Salamander—the leader—looked back from the front seat. “The meaning of this is, you fucked up.”

“What are you talking about?” said Horkman. “We
won
.”

“Exactly.”

Horkman looked at me. “I was right,” he said. “These guys
wanted
the rebels to lose.”

“I
really
need a toilet,” I said.

“What are you going to do with us?” said Horkman.

“We're gonna take you for a little ride,” answered the leader. “On the Dildo of Doom.”

“The
what
?”

“Technically,” said the leader, “it's the DD-2038X, a very small, very fast, very advanced nuclear stealth submarine. Officially it doesn't exist, so don't tell anybody, okay?” He smiled. “Not that you'll have anybody to tell, where you're going.”

“I can't hold it much longer,” I said.

“Where
are
we going?” demanded Horkman.

The leader smiled again. “Gitmo.”

“Is there a bathroom there?” I said.

“Guantánamo?” said Horkman. “You can't do that! We're American citizens!”

“What you are,” said the leader, “is wanted international terrorists. Who are about to go missing. Like Osama.”

The cars stopped in a deserted waterfront area. It was very dark. They hustled us out and onto a rotting dock. The sub was tied there, low in the water, almost invisible. They opened a hatch and shoved us down a ladder into a cramped area with a little bench. They told us to sit on it and stay there. They cast off the lines and closed the hatch. The helmsman flipped switches and worked the controls. The sub started moving.

“Is there a bathroom on this thing?” I said.

“Just a minute,” said the leader. “We're diving.”

“I don't have a minute,” I said.

I felt the sub going down. And then I felt something else. Something bad.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

And then a volcano erupted in my bowels.

Horkman, sitting next to me, smelled it first.

“Ohmigod,” he said.

I couldn't answer. I was still erupting. I was the Old Faithful of feces, the Space Shuttle of shit

“Oh. My. God,” said Horkman, looking at the floor. I don't even want to tell you what was happening on the floor, other than to say it was not a color usually found in nature.

Almost immediately an unbearable stench filled the sub. It was like being sealed in the business end of a Porta-Potty at a chili cookoff in Phoenix in July. The Salamanders were gagging.

“SURFACE!” shouted the leader, his eyes watering. “NOW!”

“But, sir,” responded the helmsman, “we're still in the—”

“TAKE IT UP RIGHT NOW!”

The helmsman yanked on levers. The sub shot up. The Salamanders were already opening the hatch when we reached the surface; some water splashed in as the Salamanders scrambled up the ladder and out. Horkman was right behind them. I was right behind Horkman.

I stuck my head out the hatch and sucked in a breath of air. We had popped up in Havana Harbor near some big ships, freighters. The Salamanders were on the front end of the sub, lying down, retching and puking into the harbor.

“Psst,” said Horkman. He actually used that word: “Psst.” He was crouching at the back of the sub, waving at me to go that way. “Come on,” he whispered, and he slid off the deck into the water.

I wasn't crazy about the idea, but I also wasn't crazy about staying with gung ho maniacs on a diarrhea-filled submarine, even if it was my diarrhea. So as quietly as I could, I slid into the water after him. We swam toward the closest freighter, and spotted an opening almost at water level toward the back. We climbed up the ladder there and found ourselves inside what looked like the ship's garbage-collection area, which smelled almost as bad as I did. We followed a corridor into the ship, found an empty cabin and ducked inside. There were some hanging bunks, and we decided we'd spend the night there and figure out what to do when it was daylight. Horkman made me take off my pants and throw them out the porthole.

We collapsed on the bunks; I fell asleep in maybe a minute.

When I woke up, sunlight was coming through the porthole.

And the ship was moving.

CHAPTER 37

The NBC Nightly News

BRIAN WILLIAMS:
Good evening. Our top story tonight again comes from Cuba, where the extraordinary events of the past two days have taken yet another astonishing twist. It now appears that the military masterminds behind the astonishing lightning-strike revolution that overthrew the Cuban regime were, of all people, Philip Horkman and Jeffrey Peckerman, the New Jersey–based international terrorists believed to be responsible for the recent attacks in New York City and the hijacking of the cruise ship
Windsong
, including the traumatic assault on Charo. For more on this remarkable development we go to NBC correspondent Richard Hanft, in Havana. Richard, what, exactly, is the connection between the rebel forces and these wanted terrorists?

HANFT:
It's not clear, Brian. The rebel leaders claim they had no prior contact with Horkman or Peckerman. Yet somehow the two men were able to evade capture by the Cuban authorities, locate the secret rebel headquarters, take charge of the insurgent army, and lead the attack on Havana, achieving an astonishing victory by means of a highly unorthodox and innovative military tactic called “the radius.”

WILLIAMS:
“The radius?”

HANFT:
Correct, Brian. The rebels say their victory was totally the result of this innovative maneuver, led by these two apparently very charismatic men. And in yet another strange twist, Horkman and Peckerman apparently vanished only hours after the battle ended. One minute they were at a victory banquet here in Havana, and the next minute they were gone—disappearing, in the words of the Cuban rebels, like
fantasmas de la noche
, or “ghosts of the night.” To add to the mystery, early today the Cubans found a top-secret American spy submarine floating in Havana harbor, with a team of commandos clinging to the hull. Apparently the submarine had been disabled by some kind of powerful biological weapon.

WILLIAMS:
Could this also be the work of Horkman and Peckerman?

HANFT:
The Cubans believe so, Brian. The American government has no official comment on the sub, but sources have told me the Pentagon is deeply embarrassed that Horkman and Peckerman were able to neutralize an elite commando unit apparently sent here to capture them.

WILLIAMS:
For more on the U.S. reaction, we go to NBC Washington correspondent Jeffrey Berkowitz. Jeffrey, what is the American government saying now?

BERKOWITZ:
Brian, officially Horkman and Peckerman are still wanted as terrorist enemies of the United States. But their role in the Cuban revolt has caused many here in Washington to reevaluate these shadowy figures. There's speculation that they may actually be some kind of super double agents, if you will—
posing
as terrorists, but actually using their international clout, and their formidable abilities, to advance a different agenda altogether.

WILLIAMS:
What agenda is that?

BERKOWITZ:
Nobody knows for sure, Brian, although some are now calling them freedom fighters. The singer Bono is strongly hinting that he has been in contact with them, as are Geraldo Rivera and the Nike Corporation. And in an indication that the public image of these fugitives may be changing, here in Washington we're already seeing young people wearing T-shirts like the one I'm holding here, with the words
“Fantasmas de la Noche”
above the faces of Horkman and Peckerman.

WILLIAMS:
That's Horkman and Peckerman?

BERKOWITZ:
I'm told these are their Bar Mitzvah photos.

WILLIAMS:
Fascinating. And does anyone have any idea where these two are now?

BERKOWITZ:
Apparently not, Brian. They have indeed vanished like ghosts in the night. They could be, literally, anywhere on Earth. But wherever they are, it's a good bet, based on their track record, that excitement is not far behind.

WILLIAMS:
“Excitement” is definitely the word for these two.