The Cuban Affair

Chapter 55

So this guy walks into a bar and says, “Corona. Hold the lime.”

And the bartender replies, “Lime’s on me.”

The cocktail hour in the Green Parrot begins when the doors open and ends when the lights go out. It was 2 A.M. on Monday morning and the lights were about to go out.

The place was nearly empty, so Amber had time to chat. “How was Cuba?”

“It was okay.”

“How were the people?”

“Most of them were okay.” A few tried to kill me, but why mention it?

“You have pictures?”

“No.” Well, yes, on my cell phone, but my cell phone was in my backpack and my backpack was at the bottom of the ocean.

Amber pushed a bowl of corn chips toward me. “I haven’t seen Jack around.”

“He’s off the island.”

“How’d he do in the tournament?”

“Came in second.”

“Good.” She asked, “Did you see him there?”

“No.”

She said, “You heard that they cancelled the last few days of the Pescando tournament.”

“I heard.”

“And they kicked out a tour group.”

I’ll bet I know which group.

“Weren’t you with a group?”

“I was. But then I did independent travel.”

“Did it feel dangerous?”

“Well... I guess it could be. But not for the average tourist.”

“I thought the Cubans wanted better relations.”

“We all have a ways to go.”

She changed the subject. “What are you going to do now, Mac?”

“I was thinking about retiring.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Me too.” She said, “Couple of captains asked me if you were available.”

“I think I’ve had enough of the sea.”

“Lots of guys say that.”

They must also have been shot at by Cuban gunboats.

A guy at the end of the bar wanted another drink and Amber moved off.

I sipped my Corona. It had been five days since my Black Hawk ride to Coast Guard Station Islamorada on Plantation Key. It’s a bit of a blur, but I do remember the second Black Hawk firing a rocket into The Maine and she exploded, burned, and went down. I don’t think I was supposed to see that, and when I asked about it at Islamorada, a Coast Guard officer told me the boat was a hazard to navigation and had to be sent to the bottom. Actually, as I came to understand, The Maine — Fishy Business — was evidence that needed to be buried at sea. She deserved a better fate.

Amber came back and said, “Kitchen’s dumping some fries and wings. You want some?”

“I’m okay.”

Amber looked at me. “You lost some weight. Are you okay?”

“I’m good. How’ve you been?”

“Good.” She found her cigarettes behind the bar. “Mind if I smoke?”

“It’s your bar.”

“I wish.” She lit up and blew a nice smoke ring. She asked, “Did you make it to Fantasy Fest?”

“Missed it.”

“How come?”

“I wasn’t back yet.”

Actually, I was a guest of the Coast Guard on Plantation Key. Along with Jack, Felipe, and Sara. They said we needed medical attention. Actually, only Jack did. The X-ray showed a cracked rib. No big deal. So we wanted out of there, but a Coast Guard doctor said we were quarantined for seventy-two hours, though we were actually being held incommunicado.

On day two, a guy named Keith, who had been with us on the Black Hawk, told us that the Cuban government had implicated me, Sara, Jack, and Felipe in a criminal act that might include murder. This was not good news, but also not unexpected.

The Black Hawks, by the way, were unmarked, as was Keith, and they had nothing to do with the Coast Guard. Keith was in fact a CIA officer, though he never actually said that.

Regarding the murder charges, Keith assured us that we had no extradition treaty with Cuba and this matter could drag on for years. Or be settled diplomatically. In the meantime, Keith was interested in what happened and he needed statements from us, which we said we were happy to give with our lawyers present.

I thought back to what happened in the mangrove swamp. Murder? I could make a case for justifiable homicide. Or even lawful combat. The Guarda Frontera guys were not civilians, and they were armed. On the other hand, I wasn’t a soldier anymore, and we were not at war with Cuba. But... it was Cuba. If the same thing had happened in Sweden, I’d have surrendered. Instead I’d used deadly force. Which was why I was here having a beer at the Green Parrot, and those guys in the mangrove swamp were dead. I did feel some remorse, as well I should. One Human Family. But I would eventually come to terms with what happened in Cuba as I did with what happened in Afghanistan. And as Jack did with Vietnam. Survival is a strong instinct, surrender is not an option, and all combat is justifiable homicide. But you pay a price.

Amber broke into my thoughts. “That guy Carlos who you met here last month came around a few days ago looking for you. Said he went to your house, but you weren’t there.”

“What’d he want?”

“Didn’t say.”

Well, one of these days I needed to talk to Carlos about financial and legal matters, and other things. Did I still have his card?

“He said you weren’t answering your cell phone.” She added, “I tried to call you.”

“Lost my cell in Cuba.” I thought back to our air-sea rescue. Age and infirmity get rescued first, and that was Jack, but he said, “Beauty first,” and Sara went up in the basket, then Jack. Captain goes last and I reminded Felipe that he’d mutinied and wanted to be captain, but he also wanted off The Maine quickly in case the engine blew, so he took the third basket into the chopper, and I went last.

We argued with the crew chief about bringing the two trunks up, but Keith, who seemed to be in charge, said they’d be retrieved by the second Black Hawk. But when we got to Plantation Key and asked for the return of the trunks — our trunks — the story changed, and a Coast Guard officer said they’d gone down with the ship. Which of course was bullshit. And there was more bullshit to come.

Amber glanced at her watch. “Last call.”

“I’m okay.”

As for Carlos, I hope he had insurance on his boat. More importantly, I think he owed me at least fifty grand, and I think I owed him a kick in the nuts. What I knew for sure was that there wasn’t going to be any press conference in Miami. In fact, our new friend Keith strongly suggested to me, Jack, Sara, and Felipe that because of the legal and diplomatic issues we shouldn’t discuss our Cuba trip with anyone — except him. Felipe agreed, and urged me, Jack, and Sara to heed Keith’s advice. Felipe, of course, had worked with Keith’s colleagues — or maybe with Keith himself — on our escape plan from Cuba, and it appeared to me that Felipe was still working for the Company. I mean, you don’t have to read Richard Neville novels to figure that out.

On the more important issue of my money, Eduardo had promised me a consolation prize in lieu of my three million dollars, in exchange for my cooperation and my appearances on radio and TV. But that press conference wasn’t going to happen, and also Eduardo was either dead by now or in a Cuban jail. Or he was wandering around a cemetery. I asked Amber, “What day is this?”

“November second.”

“Day of the Dead.”

“The what?”

“All Souls’ Day. The Spanish call it Day of the Dead.”

“Weird.” She glanced at her watch again. “I gotta run the register and do some stuff. You want to wait? We can go for a beer.”

“I’ll take a rain check.”

“Sure.” She let me know, “I’m off tomorrow.”

“Me too.” I spontaneously suggested, “Let’s go swimming.”

“Sounds good.”

I stood. “I’ll call you.”

“You lost your phone.”

“I have a house phone.” I gave Amber the number. “Call me if you get a better offer.”

“See you tomorrow.”

I went out to Whitehead and began walking toward my house. It was a nice night, the kind of breezy, balmy night you get in the Keys by November, like the nights you get in Portland in summer.

A block from the Parrot was the Zero Mile Marker of U.S. Highway One and I stopped there and looked at the marker, which was actually a standard highway pole with traffic signs attached. The sign on the top said BEGIN, the next one said 1, then NORTH, and finally a small green sign at the bottom said MILE 0.

During the day there’re dozens of tourists here having their pictures taken — thousands every year. And you can get a T-shirt of the sign on Duval. Some people come here believing that the marker has telepathic powers or something, so I stood at the Zero Mile Marker, waiting for some profound thought or a divine message directing me toward the road I needed to take. I thought I heard a voice say, “Go get Amber, get drunk, then take her home and bang her. That will make you feel good.” I don’t think a divine voice would say that. But that’s what I would have heard and done before Sara Ortega.

On that subject, the Coast Guard had offered us rides home, and Sara and Felipe went to Miami together. Jack wanted a ride to Miami Airport, destination Newark Airport, to see his sister in Hoboken, which was good. Me going to Miami with the three of them would be awkward, so I asked for a ride to Key West. That was two days ago. Sara and I hadn’t exchanged landline numbers, so we both had good excuses for not calling. She had said, however, “Let me work this out and I’ll come see you in Key West.”

I guess she was still working it out. If it took two more days, we’d be passing each other on the Overseas Highway as I was heading north to Maine. I’d always thought about making that trip by car, starting right here at Zero Mile, and following old U.S. One to Portland. So now I decided to do this. Should be interesting. And give me time to clear my head. My parents will be pleasantly surprised at the return of their prodigal son.

I started walking home, but my feet took me toward Charter Boat Row.

On my way through the quiet, palm-lined streets, I gave some additional thought to Cuba — not to what I’d seen, heard, and experienced, but what I hadn’t.

As best I could figure — drawing on my limited knowledge of clandestine operations — Eduardo and his amigos had gone to their amigos in the CIA with a plan. The CIA obviously liked the plan and offered to back it. They were suckers for any plan that included screwing Cuba, even if it wasn’t their own plan. But the CIA likes to control other people’s plans, and take credit if the plan goes well, or take a hike if it goes south.

Bottom line, I was certain that the CIA was more interested in the remains of the American servicemen murdered in Villa Marista prison than they were in Sara’s grandpa’s money hidden in a cave. I was sure the money once existed, and that was Sara’s deep belief. But there was no way of knowing if the money was still there, and if it was, the CIA didn’t care. It wasn’t their money. As for the property deeds, I think the CIA thought these documents might be useful to have in their possession — and not the possession of the Cuban exile community who had their own agenda and did crazy things.

I could imagine the Company seeming to be enthusiastic about Eduardo’s press conference in Miami, and about the storm of outrage it would cause in Congress, the media, the public, and within the MIA and veterans’ organizations. Bye-bye Cuban Thaw.

The CIA, however, had no intention of leaving something as important as American foreign policy to the Cuban exile community. In fact, the Company, while approving and backing the plan of Eduardo and his friends, pictured a different outcome: The Company would take charge of the evidence and control how, when, and if it would be revealed.

I mean, this was a no-brainer, and I was surprised that Eduardo and his amigos didn’t see how the last act was going to be re-written by their CIA partners. And the reason they didn’t see this, I think, is that the Cuban exile community, like the CIA, had such a big hard-on for screwing the Castro brothers that they couldn’t see or think straight. Blinded by hate, the way guys get blinded by lust.

I had no idea what the CIA intended to do with the contents of those two trunks, and for all I knew, the Company — maybe on orders from the top — had come onboard for the Cuban Thaw, and they were going to bury the evidence that would screw it up, like they buried The Maine. Or maybe they’d reveal to certain people in Washington the existence and contents of the trunks, to be used as a bargaining chip in the negotiations. Not my problem, except that I’d like to see those remains returned to their families. And maybe they would be. Quietly. Someday. But in the meantime, the CIA’s story was that the trunks had gone to the bottom of Davy Jones’ locker. Keith said he was sorry about that.

Bottom line, Eduardo, Carlos, Sara, Jack, and I had been used and screwed. As for Felipe, he was obviously the Company’s man in Cuba. He had worked with the CIA on our escape plan, but when the escape by boat became a naval battle, he wanted to broadcast a surrender to the Cuban patrol boats — or more likely he was actually broadcasting a pre-arranged message to his CIA friends that we were in trouble. In either case, it seemed to me that he’d lost his nerve, and maybe lost his trust in his CIA amigos. It happens. But all’s well that ends well; the Black Hawks came to the rescue.

The CIA’s motto, “The truth shall set you free,” was kind of an understood joke, while Key West’s motto, “One Human Family,” is a sad joke. Somewhere in between the cynical lies and a naïve trust in the human race was the true human condition: complex and capable of anything from heroism and self-sacrifice to betrayal and murder. That’s what I saw in Afghanistan, and what I saw in Cuba.

And my final thought on all this was that if we and The Maine had made it to Key West, Keith and his colleagues would have been there to relieve us of the trunks. In the end, there was no way those trunks were going to wind up at a press conference.

The Black Hawk’s timing was a little off, however, and I didn’t know if that had to do with the storm, or if it had to do with Keith not fully understanding our situation, or if it had to do with typical chain-of-command inability to act quickly and decisively. Or maybe, to be cynical, the Company was trying to decide if this whole mission needed to be buried at sea. As I said, I’d worked with CIA Special Ops in Afghanistan, and they were good at what they did. And when they made mistakes — like directing a drone to launch a Hellfire missile into a house full of civilians — it was not a mistake; it had a purpose, and you’d never know what that was, because dead men tell no tales.

So, that was my post-action report and my estimation of the completed but unsuccessful mission. More importantly, my DEROS — Date of Estimated Return from Overseas — had come, and I was home.

My post-action report regarding Sara Ortega, however, was more complicated, and that awaited further Intel.

In life, love, and war, there are usually identifiable winners and losers. But with this Cuban mission, it was hard to tell if anyone won. I think Sara understood that Felipe hadn’t been completely honest with her, and I was sure that the CIA hadn’t been honest with Felipe — or Eduardo. And those two certainly hadn’t been honest with me. Nor had Sara, for that matter, but I’m sure she thought she was lying to me for my own good. That’s the way we justify lies to people we love. As for Felipe, he lied for his own good, but I fucked his girlfriend, so we’d call it even. Did I miss anyone? Well, Jack, who never trusted anyone from the beginning. Old guys have seen too much, and they trust no one. That would be me someday if I lived long enough. As for Carlos... well, Fishy Business indeed.

And all of this reminded me of Antonio quoting Hemingway about how the Cubans always double-crossed each other. I guess Hemingway lived in Cuba long enough to come to this conclusion — and he hadn’t even met Antonio, Carlos, Felipe, or Eduardo. Or Sara Ortega, who hadn’t actually double-crossed me, but who’d lied to me. It occurred to me that the Cuban exile groups and the CIA deserved each other.

I mean, this was all one big circle jerk, and if anyone was a winner, maybe it was the CIA. They needed a win in Cuba. They were long overdue.

I arrived at Charter Boat Row and walked out to the end of the long dock where The Maine had once been berthed, as I’d done so many times in the early-morning hours before sunrise.

The last slip was empty, so no one had yet taken it over.

I looked out at Garrison Bight, at the harbor lights reflecting off the water, and at the clear, starry sky and the moon setting in the west.

I recalled the last time I’d seen The Maine here, the night before Jack drove me to Miami International Airport. I think I’d had a premonition then that I’d never see her again, but that had more to do with me not making it home than The Maine not making it home.

I thought, too, of the time that Carlos, Eduardo, and Sara had come walking down this dock, and Jack saying, “Hey! She’s a looker.” He should have added, “I see trouble coming.” Not that it would have made a difference.

I didn’t feel like going home, so I sat on the dock with my back to a piling and stared out at the water and the sky and smelled the salt air, which always reminds me of being a kid in Maine.

It seemed to me that there was a purpose to all that happened, and the purpose was to free me of all my worldly possessions, my debts and obligations, and also to free myself from what had become the equivalent of my job on Wall Street.

Also, I’d more than fulfilled my wish to have a new adventure. I could have done without the shoot-out in the mangrove swamp or the drive-by shooting with the Zhuk, and for sure I could have done without the 30mm cannon fire. But everything was within my skill set, and a return to combat duty was just what an Army shrink would have ordered to make me healthy and happy. The best cure for post-traumatic stress is new stress.

And now I needed to decide what to do next, which I would do tomorrow. Or the next day. My road trip to Maine sounded good.

I think I drifted a bit, and in those unguarded minutes of half-sleep, Sara’s face and voice crept into my thoughts.

I’d obviously fallen hard, but the reality was that we had not a single thing going for us outside of Cuba. Holiday romances can be intense, but as the old song said, too many moonlight kisses seem to cool in the warmth of the sun.

Aside from the good sex, there was the question of trust. I don’t know as much about women as I think I do, but I was fairly sure that Sara’s lies were situational, a requirement of the mission, and not who she was. That’s why she gave me a copy of the treasure map: to show she trusted me, but also to atone for her lies. I could forgive the lies she’d been instructed to tell me, and the lies of omission — except the lies about Felipe, which were more personal than professional — and she’d lied to him, too. And that could be a peek into the future. And what the hell was she doing in Miami?

So I should consider myself lucky that I’d dodged that bullet along with the others. Mac was free at last.

The sky was getting lighter and the gulls were squawking.

I stood, yawned, and stretched. I’d spent a lot of nights sleeping on my boat, but not many sleeping on the dock.

Charter Boat Row was coming alive and I saw crews and captains getting their boats ready for customers who’d be along in an hour or so. Now that I was not part of this, I could admit it wasn’t so bad, and I would miss it.

I took a last look at The Maine’s empty slip, and I pictured her there, then I turned to walk back along the dock to go home for a cup of coffee and start packing for Maine. Did I own a sweater?

At first I thought I was still half asleep, or my brain was still conjuring up ghost images, or maybe like a lot of guys who’ve loved and lost, I was seeing her face on every woman walking by. But the woman walking toward me on the dock was wearing white jeans, a blue Polo shirt, and a baseball cap. She had a nice stride.

She waved to me and called out, “I had a feeling I’d find you here.”

We didn’t exactly run into each other’s arms, but we did move pretty fast, and within a few seconds we were embracing, and she said, “Permission to come aboard.”

“Welcome aboard.”

Corny, I know. But... what the hell.