most likely make landfall in two hours, fifty minutes, unless detained again.”
“That won’t be nearly as much of an issue,” Kate said. She knew that Jonas wouldn’t get picked up by the Coast Guard, and even if he attracted their attention, he’d be able to slip out of their grasp with ease. They watched the two dots grow farther apart, the operatives heading their separate ways.
Judy cleared her throat. “Waiting for the incident report?” she asked.
“Of course. Aren’t you?” Kate replied.
“I’m still here, aren’t I? If you’d like, I can have a summary ready for you later this morning.”
“Thanks, Judy, but I’ll take it now, if you don’t mind. I imagine it won’t be long before he calls.”
As if on cue, a ringtone sounded. “Secure channel. Hello, Beta,” Kate said.
“My ears are burning,” Jonas’s voice came over the line.
Kate smiled—of course he’d know they were watching; he’d certainly done enough of it himself overseeing Eastern European operations. Still, protocol had to be followed. “Report.”
“Alpha and Beta operatives entered Cuban waters at approximately 2342 hours. Although the area was supposed to be clear of government patrols, we were sighted and intercepted. Alpha deployed safely and undetected, then I stopped and let the hostiles board. After completing their search and questioning me, during which I utilized the cover story, I overheard them planning to kill me and seize the boat. I incapacitated them, transferred them back aboard their vessel, disabled its engine and left the area.”
“Thank you. That was very nice work,” Kate said.
“
Kate and Judy exchanged impressed glances. “Regardless, we’re just happy that you’re all right and that Alpha is safely deployed. Return home and prepare for the next phase.”
“Beta out.”
Kate cut the connection with Jonas and turned to Judy.
“I just hope our man in Havana does, as well.”
Once Marcus hit the water, he descended to about sixty feet, then achieved neutral buoyancy, floating in the pitch-black ocean as the yacht passed by, the pounding of its engines reverberating through his skull. He made sure his gear was intact, then uncovered his dive computer and got his bearings. When he was facing south, he activated the Torpedo 2000 Diver Propulsion Vehicle and let the battery-operated craft tow him toward his destination. After five minutes of hurtling blind through the warm currents, he turned on his dive light, which only penetrated about ten feet of dark water at this depth. For his part, Marcus kept his legs as still as possible, trying not to think about a shark attack.
It took over an hour, but at last his personal sonar indicated that he was approaching a large land mass. Marcus angled the DPV up, breaking the surface about one hundred yards from shore. Inflating his buoyancy vest, he checked the area through a night-vision monocular, scanning the brilliant white beach through the green-tinted amplified light. Satisfied he was alone, he let the Torpedo pull him to the beach, then took off his fins and ran for the jungle.
Jonas had let him off near the Matanzas province, about ten miles from its main city of the same name. Marcus removed the rest of his equipment, buried it deep in the sand and erased all evidence that anyone had been there. He slipped on a pair of cotton drawstring pants along with a loose, short-sleeved guayabera shirt and sandals. Checking his digital compass watch, he headed south again, knowing there was a main road nearby that led into Matanzas, where he could catch a bus to Havana.
The jungle was thick, but he had only gone about fifty yards when he hit the Via Blanca Highway, a well- maintained, four-lane asphalt road. Turning right, his sandals slapped the pavement as he trudged along, shoulders slumped, looking like any other weary Cuban forced to walk to his destination.
MARCUS LET GO of the outside rail of the bus and stepped onto the Havana street. He had been here for less than half a day, and already he was weary. It wasn’t a physical weari-ness, but rather an emotional one.
His tour of Cuba had begun well enough. When he walked into Matanzas, he found a relatively clean city, with several neighborhoods and business sections connected by attractive bridges. Although the buildings were mostly small, one story and crowded together, they were also neat, as were the paved streets they lined.
Asking the locals for directions, he found the bus station, and was surprised to find that he would be riding in an air-conditioned bus to Havana. The trip was very comfortable, as they passed over the Ponte de Bacunayagua, an incredible bridge built over a massive chasm. Marcus stared at the car-pet of lush, green jungle that stretched out and up the hill-sides below him.
Once they hit the outskirts of the capital city, however, things changed rapidly. Although he saw the high-rises of Havana’s financial district in the distance, all around him were blocks of crumbling buildings, their facades worn and fading, with missing windows, doors and sometimes even roofs and walls, lending an eerie, war-torn ambiance to the streets. Many buildings were little more than gutted ruins, long abandoned. Even the splashes of once vibrant paint, greens and pinks and blues and yellows, were faded and flaking away from years of neglect.
People either sat on the stoops of their houses or walked wherever they had to go. The traffic in the city was sparse.
Large buses were packed full of dozens of people, with more hanging on to the outside and riding on the roof. The old, overloaded vehicles labored to haul their human cargo around the city. No one looked particularly ill or hungry, but they also didn’t look particularly happy. Marcus saw many furtive, downcast gazes as his bus drove past slowly disintegrating neighborhoods. It seemed that everyone was concentrating on getting through the day so much, they didn’t have time to think about the future, or even what tomorrow might bring. Here and there he spotted small flashes of normalcy—an abandoned lot transformed into a working garden, laughing children darting back and forth as they played a pickup game of stickball in the street. But overall Marcus felt a sense of oppression, of needs and wants, of hopes, dreams and desires clung to until they stagnated, rather than their holders being able to fulfill their wishes.
The only people who looked even remotely comfortable were the police, who were interspersed with occasional small units of army personnel. They all looked well fed and content in their uniforms, and Marcus saw them detaining and questioning people who didn’t look as if they were doing anything wrong or even out of the ordinary. Once, as he watched two police officers interrogating a young black man, they both looked up, their dark eyes following him as if they knew something was amiss, as if they knew he didn’t belong there. Marcus didn’t drop his gaze, but stared at them until they passed out of view.
He leaned back in his seat, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He’d known going in that things wouldn’t be pretty. While growing up, Cuba had been the subject of many conversations around the dinner table, and he had heard the arguments on all sides—capitalist, Communist and socialist. He had seen the pictures, went on the exile Web sites and even marched in a couple of lift-the-embargo protests in Miami when he had been in high school. But nothing had prepared him for actually being there, for seeing the seamy conditions that people experienced every day.
It wasn’t the fact that the neighborhoods existed, or even that the people who lived there seemed so bereft of hope.
During his years in the Rangers, Marcus had traveled to places that made Cuba look like a true paradise. He’d been to Darfur, walked through the smoldering remains of villages after the genocidal militias had swept through, slaughtering and destroying everyone and everything in their path.
At least, he thought, the majority of the Cubans still had all their limbs intact. He was also well aware that America didn’t have a glorious record of upholding human rights, either, particularly in areas where they had a vested interest, like the Middle East.
What stunned him was the idea that Castro kept claim-ing to be a progressive leader of this nation, preaching that he was helping his people in the first place, that they were still fighting the
Even more amazing to him was the fact that no one had ever been able to stop Castro. Marcus knew of the
