Havana

Chapter 19

Earl wondered where the marines were. According to the schedule, the congressman would drive to Guantanamo today for a two-day inspection tour, under escort from armed marines. But when he arrived at the embassy that morning, he could see no marines except for the two young men standing at parade rest at the gate.

He walked inside to find the duty NCO in his embassy security office just down the main hall from the visa section.

"Sergeant," he asked, "where're the jeeps? They ain't here yet?"

"Gunny, the escort was canceled. I don't know why. We were alerted when we came on at 0600 there wasn't going to be any escort."

"Christ. Any idea what smart guy thought that one up?"

"No, Gunny."

"Tell me, what do y'all keep in the embassy strong room?"

"Mostly shotguns. Them old short-barreled 97 Winchester pumps."

"Maybe Teddy Roosevelt brought 'em over. Could I check one out?"

"Well, Gunny, there's paperwork. You have to get the ambassador's written permission. Arms are only allowed out of the strong room on his authority. But I guess if the congressman wants something, all he has to do is ask, that's the way it works."

"You know what? I think you're right about that."

He went back to the motor pool, where Cuban workers were just finishing a nice wash and wax job on the congressman's black Cadillac, while an American supervisor watched from a chair.

"You check it?" he asked the man, a senior motor pool mechanic.

"I checked it yesterday," said the man.

"Well, check it again. I don't want no hoses pulling loose or fan belts popping in some goddamned jungle, you hear me?"

"Hey, I don't work for you. I work for the State Department."

"You must be from the navy at one time."

"Twenty years. Retired a bosun's mate, as a matter of fact. Say, what's it to you?"

"Figured. Anyhow, check the goddamned car," said Earl, leaning forward and fixing his own NCO glare on the man, "or I'll have the congressman ship you off to the North Pole. Check the tires too, and the oil. I want that car shipshape."

Bitterly, the man set about to do the work, and Earl watched as he ran over the car, digging through the hood, pulling the dipstick, tugging the fan belts, doing a fair once-over, even if his attitude was all nasty and dark.

"Good work, son," Earl finally said, checking his watch. At last, he saw Lane approaching.

"Mr. Brodgins?"

"Yeah, Earl, what is it?"

"Sir, what happened to the marine escort? The plan I saw, we were going to have two jeeps of marines with us the whole way."

"The congressman changed his mind on that. He thought it was better to keep a low profile and not associate Americans with a military occupational force."

"Mr. Brodgins, I―"

"Earl, I swear you are a load every single day, aren't you? One thing or another, every single day. Earl, it's the congressman's decision. He makes the decisions, don't you understand?"

"I do understand that. I'd feel safer with some nice young privates in khakis or class A's, all trim and proper looking. It's a deterrent―"

"Earl, you know the boss. He may want to have a stop somewhere. For a rum drink. You know his proclivities, too. You do know them."

"Yes, sir. Then can you ask the ambassador to sign the paperwork so I can take a shotgun out of the strong room? I'll keep it down low, but that's some firepower it'd be nice to have along, just in case."

"Earl, I don't think so."

Earl got all heated up. His temper flared, his breath grew sharp, his eyes went narrow and hard.

"Goddammit, I am not asking, Brodgins. If you want security on this little trip, you let me make the security decisions, you hear? If something happens, I'm stuck with a goddamned handgun and that's it."

"Earl, what on earth are you expecting? This is a vacationland paradise for god's sake."

"We're going to be miles inland on dusty little roads where no Americans don't hardly go. Why don't we fly?"

"He doesn't want to spend a lot of taxpayers' money on an air trip. The trains here are terrible. A boat would take too long."

He left Earl standing there. Earl spat in the dust. He looked up and saw the ex-bosun's mate eyeing him, and expected a smirk. But instead the man came over, as if a new page had been turned.

"Okay, I got her squared away, Gunny. Sorry about your runin. These political guys can be a tear in the rigging."

"They sure can."

"Look, I was at Guantanamo for a few years before the war. I'll tell you what's going on here. If this congressman has a hard-on big as everybody says he does, he's going to Gitmo City first. There's more whorehouses there in two blocks than in any two square miles of Havana. It's a navy town, after all."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"So you may have to bang some more boss pimp skulls before you're done. I'd be on my toes."

"I get all the number-one jobs, don't I? Have you traveled the roads down there?"

"Yeah. The roads are okay. No problem. And you should be all right all the way down the island. I'd watch out as you get close to Santiago. It's very mountainous down there. And be careful in Ciego de Avila province. It's mostly empty marshlands. They don't see Americans very often. Dark, jungly, you know. Sort of like the Pacific jungles."

"I was there for a little while."

"Then you know what I'm talking about."

"I got some idea. Thanks, pal. Sorry for the harsh words earlier."

"Forget it, Sarge. Hey, I know you were in the Pacific. I know what medal you won. But I can tell, it ain't gone to your head."

"It ain't my way."

He winked at his new pal and headed back into the main building, to get familiar with the route via maps.