Wood's Harbor (20 page)

Finally the software loaded and she disabled the link, shut off the power to the phone and removed the battery. She thought about throwing it overboard, but weighed the risk and decided to keep it. With a click on the trackpad, the install process started and she waited while the timer on the screen flipped back and forth. A confirmation message appeared and she turned to the hand-held VHF radio that Trufante had showed her on his safety tour. She removed the case and examined the ports on the back allowing the unit to be used as a base station. With a knife she had found in the galley, she took the phone charger from TJ’s cell phone and cut the cord. With ease, she stripped the wires on the device side, leaving the USB connector. Carefully she inserted the bare wires into the audio out ports on VHF and plugged the connector into the USB port on the computer. 

The Echo software started and she held her breath, turned on the VHF radio and set the channel to 79. She had no idea of the network here, but with this many boats, there had to be other enthusiasts who had rigged their radios as repeaters. The screen jumped and she tapped her foot, waiting for a connection. Seconds later, the dual panes on the screen showed a link. She opened the internet browser and typed
Havana map
into the search box. The screen changed and a map slowly became clearer as the image loaded.

The engines came up to speed and she felt vibration change under her feet. She looked away from the screen and out the window again, having to fight a slight wave of nausea as spray shot by the windows, obscuring the comforting view of land. Knowing there was no use in worrying about things she couldn’t control, she looked up at the life jackets over her head and reached for one. Ensconced within the comfort of the orange fabric, she watched the video stream of the ferry docking in Havana. That was the good news; a stream of Spanish came over the computer’s speakers and she heard the word:
fugitivo
.

TWENTY FIVE

The two men froze when they saw a soldier point straight at them from the bow of an approaching boat. Mac was past fatigue and his body felt heavier with each breath as he fought to keep his head above water. He looked over at Armando who looked like he only had seconds left and Mac worried his decisions could end badly again. Thoughts of surrender crossed his mind and he was about to give up and call to the closest boat when something pulled his leg. His first reaction was to pull back, thinking it was a shark, but he could feel the synthetic material of a glove and was able to grab a deep breath before he felt the cool water embrace him. 

The men were pulled to the bottom. A dive mask appeared in his face and a hose with a mouthpiece was handed to him. The diver patiently showed him how the rebreather worked and Mac was soon piggybacked on him, alternating breaths with the awkward hose. The first few tries, he panicked as no air came out, but remembered that unlike an open circuit system where the air was released on demand, the regulator had a manual shutoff to prevent air from escaping. The equipment was designed to recycle and scrub a divers’ air, using a succession of filters to remove the CO2 and add oxygen or mixed gas so that the diver could breathe under water without releasing bubbles. Mac had never used a rebreather, but knew the theory, and his years of diving training and experience paid dividends as he knew he could trust the system. To his right he saw another diver wrestling with Armando.

He tried to attract Armando’s attention, hoping he would copy him, but the Cuban was flailing in the water, fighting the diver. Mac knew what had to happen before it did, and was not surprised when the other diver removed his knife and smacked the man several times on the temple with the blunt end. Rescue divers were often injured and sometimes killed by out-of-control victims.

Mac passed the regulator back and forth with the diver below him, the short hose hard to handle, but they soon found a natural rhythm. Armando was calm now, or maybe unconscious and the other diver stood him on the sandy bottom, inserted the mouthpiece in his mouth and opened the air valve. Mac squinted through the murky water, his eyes burning from the salt, but he thought he saw Armando move, and tapped the diver below him, motioning him closer to the two men. They reached them and Mac saw that Armando was conscious, a small stream of green running from his temple. He tapped him and saw the man’s eyes open. Once he had his attention he exaggerated the movements to buddy breath with the equipment. Finally, the panic left Armando’s face and he calmed down. Both men climbed on the back of the divers, who inflated their buoyancy compensators to stay neutral in the water and started to swim. 

Used to the constant stream of bubbles from standard SCUBA gear, the rebreathers were incredibly quiet and it took him a few minutes to adjust to the feeling. The sound of propellers came from above and between breaths he looked up at the surface, barely visible through the harbor water. Through squinted eyes he estimated the visibility was less than ten feet, the other pair barely visible beside him, the ferry lost in the murky water. 

They stayed at this level in the eerily dark water, in a kind of purgatory, neither the surface nor the bottom visible. The diver checked his compass and gauges, making small adjustments to their buoyancy and course. Mac kept his eyes shut and focused on his breath, trying to make it easy for the diver below him. His thoughts started to focus as he got more comfortable in the strange surroundings and started speculating where these divers had come from and how they happened to be in a position to save them. There was no way, from the distance they had already travelled, that they had been in the water just to rescue them. No, they had been there doing something else, and Mac thought back to the bomb threat. There was no other explanation and he started to speculate whether they were friend or foe. He felt the diver add air to his BC and ascend. Before he could react, a hand grabbed him from above and he was hoisted from the water. 

***

Alicia looked up, wondering what the loud noise was, and smacked her head against TJ who was looking over her shoulder. Instinctively she closed the screen and stared at him, not knowing how long he had been there or what he had seen.

“What is that noise? I’m trying to work here.”

He handed her a piece of paper. “Compressor - Just filling the tanks.”

“Why now, and what’s this?” She pushed the paper aside.

“You said I would be compensated for this. It’s a bill,” TJ said. 

A wave smashed the hull causing the boat to pitch. “Shouldn’t you be driving?” she asked and grabbed the table with both hands. 

“No worries. Tru’s just taking a bit to get used to the joystick. It’s all about fine tuning the motor skills. Lot of skill transfer from driving a ten ton boat to a game controller. Now could you help me with this?” He pushed the paper back towards her. 

She looked at the sloppy handwriting and figures laid out in an uneven column, thinking the best way to get rid of him was to cooperate. Then she could get back to work. There had been some broken chatter on the VHF she had just picked up in Spanish about men in the water, but there was no way to pinpoint where the signal came from. She adjusted the squelch, but they were too far away to receive a clear signal. Frustrated she looked back at the paper. “What’s all this? Provisioning, air fills?” she asked as she scanned the charges.

“Got a charter in the morning; can’t fill the tanks at the shop. Heck, I’m, not sure we’ll even make it back,” he said and grabbed the list from her adding ‘missed charter’ to the charges.

She took it back and continued reading, “This is crazy. Fifty dollars for a twelve pack of beer that I’m not even drinking.” 

“It’s all supply and demand - gotta keep the crew happy. Besides, Tru said to add everything.”

She was getting angry, but also knew the Agency would pay whatever she submitted without question. Other bills, thinly veiled charges for cocaine and hookers, had passed her desk and the Agency paid them without comment. She took the bill back.

“Can you stop the noise?”

He went out to the deck, came back a minute later after shutting off the compressor, the dull rumble of the main engine and the sound of the seas slapping against the hull the only noise. Scary as that had been an hour ago, it was almost calming without the compressor. 

“Happy?” he asked.

She ignored him, hoping he would go away, but he remained.

“Anything else?”

“Well, I couldn’t help but notice you were scanning the VHF.”

She looked up impatiently, waiting for him to continue.

“I worked out an algorithm to triangulate the signals and generate a GPS waypoint for the source of the communication. It’s all about getting good numbers in my business. Divers now want more than the
tourista
dives in the books. With this, I see one of my competitors out on a spot and I hit this button,” he reached over her. “And shazaam. There you go.”

That was the missing piece she had been working on. She slid over and motioned for him to share the bench seat. Just as he sat, another wave threw them together.

“What the …”

“No problem.” He got up. “I’ll put the auto-pilot on. Could be that we just entered the stream.”

“The what?”

“The Gulf Stream. You know, the current of water that runs from here to Greenland. It can be a bugger sometimes.” He got up just as another wave slammed against the boat. “Yup, feels like the stream to me.”

She stared out the window. From her vantage point, the top of the waves were at eye level as she looked out the window, looking like they would roll the boat over. A quick tug confirmed the life vest was securely in place and she went back to work. The boat seemed to change course and the seas evened out. She was able to resume work. 

TJ came back down to the cabin. “Changed the heading. Should be a bit smoother now.”

“Is he still awake up there?” She could feel the last few days catching up to her.

“As long as there’s beer, he’ll be awake. When we run out is when you have to keep an eye on him.”

Not the answer she wanted, she turned the VHF louder and scanned the screen. “This is the signal. Let’s see what your program can do.” She slid the laptop towards him and watched as he put his head down and started typing. She could usually tell how good a programmer was by their body language, and from watching TJ's focus, she knew he was very good. What a waste to dedicate it to gaming, she thought. A minute later he pushed the screen back to her, a satellite image open with a red dot near three piers. 

“Terminal Sierra Maestra,” she read the small type. “That’s the ferry pier. Something’s gone wrong.”

She started typing and scanning the screen, oblivious to the eyes looking over her shoulder. 

“That’s slicker than owl shit,” he said.

 She needed his cooperation, and if trading off computer tips would garner it, so be it, she thought, and continued to let him read, talking through what she was seeing as the text flew by. “Getting two signals overlapping. One is a search effort for two men that jumped from the ferry, the other is an escort calling ahead that they have two high-ranking Americans in custody and are bringing them in for questioning.” 

She listened to the chatter, processing the pieces as she listened to the radio and watched the screen. This was her wheelhouse and she relaxed, letting her subconscious work, knowing that it would soon spit out the answers.

“I’m going to need a plan pretty soon. We’re past Key West and should be near Cuban waters in a couple of hours.”

***

Norm sat in the chair waiting for his captors to return and reveal his fate. There were only three outcomes and only one of those was good: a Cuban jail, death, or release. He expected the latter. A CIA operative at his level had things to offer, either information or a trade. He had probably been missed by now, but with the nature of the business it would be days, or even weeks, before anyone bothered to look for him. Only Alicia had any idea what he was up to and she was also deeply embroiled in this mess. He could only hope that she wouldn’t panic. By now he expected her to have tracked him down with her computer skills.

The door opened and the general entered. “We meet again, Mr. CIA,” he said.

Norm stared at the pock-marked face and waited.

“My grandson is missing. He jumped into the harbor with your accomplice.”

Norm suspected something was wrong when he saw Choy walk into the room. “I got him to Cuba. You can find him,” he said more bravely than he felt. 

“The deal was to hand him over and I would give you the location and time of the bomb.” He leaned over, his face close. “You have failed and now you can watch the ferry blow up and everything you have worked for vanish.” 

“There will be an investigation,” Norm stuttered.

“In Cuban waters?” Choy waved his hands in dismissal, “They can say what they want. Relations between the countries will be ruined, maybe permanently, but at least long enough for China to strengthen its foothold here.” 

“The US will never allow that,” Norm said.

“Allow what,” Chow spat. “Trade? We have learned to use your own convictions against you. There is no need to start a war when your real weakness is yourselves. The liberal media in your country will be jumping over each other every time a freighter enters Cuban water bearing Chinese goods to improve the lives of the poor Cubans. Make no mistake. We will own this country.”

“And what about me?” Norm asked.

TWENTY SIX

He was hauled onto the steel deck and bound. From the quick glimpse he got before they blindfolded him he determined that it was a Navy ship and Cuban from the Spanish being spoken around him. He felt Armando’s body next to his as orders were given and they were hauled across the hard deck. The bulkhead slammed into his back as they were dragged inside a cabin and he was alone.