The first barrage of return fire hit the boat with a series of powerful, heavy whacks. Pedro was the first to go down. He was hit badly, and more than once. He made a horrible guttural sound, and his pistol flew from his hands. Then he got hit again. He staggered as another volley found him, and suddenly he was picked up and hurled overboard, as if by an invisible hand. At the same time, Felix broke free of Paul’s grip, grabbed his rifle, and tried to stand, but a bullet found him as well. He hurtled backward, the rifle flying from his hands. It rattled onto the rail and tumbled overboard.
Alex had hit the deck as soon as she could. The boat veered wildly in the water, its tiller not guided by any hand and the boom now swinging freely. As the floodlights illuminated their boat, Alex knew that somewhere along the line – either in the intelligence community, in the underworld, or in some cabal she did not yet know or understand – something had gone horribly wrong.
“Paul!” she screamed. “Paul!”
She could see Guarneri, lying flat on the deck but moving, apparently untouched by the gunfire. The same could not be said for Felix. He was lying across the foredeck, blood pouring from the wounds in his neck and upper chest. Alex had no idea if the man was dead. Not far away, Leo was also on the deck, bleeding badly.
Paul wriggled forward toward Pedro’s pistol. Shots continued to hit the small skiff. They hit the hull of the boat, ripped through the sail, and ripped into the wood of the mast. Guarneri put the nose of Pedro’s pistol over the bow and began to spray bullets toward the beach. Alex watched for a second, which seemed to last a lifetime. The men had all successfully scattered except for one who was trying to crawl to shelter. No one was helping him. Then Guarneri turned toward her, while keeping his head low.
“It’s me they want! They’re going to kill me! You! Get out of here!”
She made a helpless gesture. Get out? How? She was frozen in place. But to delay obviously meant death.
“Get out!” Guarneri demanded. “Jump and swim!”
“No!” she said. She reached toward her own weapon. Her instinct told her to stay and fight. But her hands were soaking, and she couldn’t quickly access her pistol.
“Alex!” Guarneri demanded again. She looked up. Bullets continued to hit the boat. “Get out or I’ll shoot you myself!” he screamed. And to break her out of her trance, he turned his revolver to her and fired a shot near her. It ripped away a chunk of wood on the hull. It was all the impetus she needed.
She crawled madly a few feet toward the stern and with a quick motion pulled herself over the side. She hit the water with a dull splash, sinking instantly. She never touched the bottom but knew immediately that she was well over her head. A moment later she reached the surface again. The water was warmer than she expected, which was good. That meant hypothermia wouldn’t be a problem. Still, if she got hit with a bullet, hypothermia would be the least of her problems.
She stayed behind the boat, with her head above water only at nose level. Even through the mist, the scene was surreal. The boat was still only about fifty yards offshore, but she could hear the angry shouts and curses from the reception party. She moved several feet behind the boat. Stray bullets hit the waters around her with sharp zipping little splashes. Paul threw the occasional pistol shot toward shore to slow the pursuers. He was the only one returning fire, and he was trying to work the tiller, throw the sail back up, and turn the boat at the same time.
She assessed where the floodlights were and whether they would follow her. There seemed to be three of them, two high ones on the top of the building and a smaller one that seemed to be mounted on a truck. At the same time, she counted the men on the beach. There were eight, maybe ten, not counting the little runt in the red beret.
She treaded water for a moment, then knew it was best to get away from the boat as quickly as possible. Yet part of her heart and conscience was in the boat. Guarneri kept firing at the shore party, and they were returning his fire.
Despite her terror and her tears, her instinct for self-preservation took over. She moved a dozen yards from the boat. Then two dozen.
She could feel a strong current, and wisely, she allowed herself to go with it. To fight it would be to spend all her energy and end up where she began. To ride it would allow her to get farther away than swimming alone could take her.
The gunfire continued but was more sporadic. She kept her head low, exposed just enough to breath. She was sure someone, somewhere, was scanning the area with binoculars, maybe even a sharpshooter looking for anyone who had escaped. She kept her arms under water and moved rhythmically with the current, gaining greater distance. The floodlights still blinded her, and she could still hear the crackle of gunfire, and now and then the sound of the bullhorn, as the opposing force presumably closed in on Paul.
Oh, Paul. Oh, Paul. Oh, Paul, she felt herself thinking. But she kept drifting. Then she was confident enough to use her arms to start a slow crawling swim. She guessed she was a hundred feet from the boat. She kept going. When she was maybe another fifty yards away, the shooting stopped. She kept moving, pulling herself along on her back now and allowing herself the dark luxury of watching events unfold. The sailboat’s mast had crumbled from the gunfire, and lay nearly motionless in the water, like a great wounded gull. The boat was bathed in floodlight, and now a pair of small craft, filled with pale figures in dark blue uniforms, cautiously approached it.
Then there was another volley of bullets from Leo’s boat. The engine started again, and the crippled craft wobbled back out toward the sea. A few moments later the two police boats started in pursuit.
There was no more return fire from the boat.
Alex reasoned that Paul had been wounded or killed. In any case, the battle seemed to be over. Then the heavy floodlight from the top of the old house started to sweep the water around the boat, and Alex knew it was looking to see if anyone had escaped. If they’d been specifically betrayed, she knew, then the police would soon be looking for her.
Once, when the floodlight swept in her direction, she ducked under the surface for several seconds, waiting for it to pass. She was already breathless and could only hold her breath for about twenty seconds before coming up for air. But by then the light was gone.
She looked back. In the middle of the cove, the defenders of the Cuban shore were boarding the battered sailboat. No sign of Paul. Could he too have gotten overboard and evaded them?
She doubted it.
Then they sprayed the water with automatic weapon fire, including a few shots which landed not far from her. But obviously they’d lost sight of her in the low mist, if they’d ever seen her at all. So she kept going. Her emergency pack. The gun, the money, the passport, was still strapped to her body. She could feel everything.
Then she realized. The sky was brightening. Daylight would be her enemy.
Alex pulled herself through the water.
A jetty blocked her view of the landing area, but she noticed another cove about a hundred yards beyond it. Slowly she moved through the water. Getting to land now was her only priority.
By this time the sky was lighter, but the shore remained dark. She continued to pull herself toward the cove, but could not make out the topography. She didn’t know if it was an area of sand, rocks, or even jagged coral, which could slice her shoes and feet. She pulled herself along for several more minutes until, finally, her feet touched the bottom.
It felt like soft dirt, mixed with sand and the occasional rock. That was good. She proceeded slowly. She knew a foot or ankle injury now would be disastrous. Next thing she knew, she was wading. First shoulder deep, then waist deep, then ankle. Then, alone and nearly at the point of collapse, she was on a strip of sand that formed a small pleasant beach. She staggered to a small stand of palm trees that would give her cover. Then she collapsed.
Bienvenidos a Cuba. Welcome to Cuba.
The sun was one hour higher in the morning sky when Major Ivar Mejias of the Policia Nacional Revolucionaria stood on the beach, his arms folded angrily in front of him. He spat on the ground. He was filled with frustration and rage. On the surface, this should have been a routine operation, picking off some contrabandistas as they hit the Cuban sand, grabbing them as they came off the boats or dropped their cargo. He had done this dozens of times in the past, whenever he had received a tip.
But today the bullets had flown for no reason and everything had turned ugly. Now he would have some higher-ups taking a close look at the way this had been handled, poking their long noses into his butt, to use the expression that was common in his bureau, and that was exactly what he didn’t want. Worse, the affair might now get turned over to the Ministry of the Interior, whose security division dealt with espionage and sabotage. A little of that – and this whole affair would be beyond his control.
He cursed again.
Two of Major Mejias’s men needed first aid and were waiting for ambulances. Both had flesh wounds. Thank God, Mejias muttered to himself, none had been killed or seriously injured. His “men” were little more than boys, if the truth were told. They were conscripts. All young Cuban men owed service to the state and were assigned to either the army or the police. Lately, he was getting a real snootful of these country chicos working out of his headquarters in Havana.
Defense of the socialist motherland is every Cuban’s greatest honor and highest duty, went the slogan. But a few brains would have been useful under the conditions Major Mejias had encountered today.
He sighed as he looked at his troops, who were just now realizing the severity of the firefight they’d been in. They were a mixed blessing, these kids. They respected authority and were affable. But they were rubes, most of them straight out of the sugar or tobacco fields. Well, so much the better for some of the things Mejias was trying to accomplish in some of Havana’s darker corners. They weren’t in any position to look over his shoulder and cause trouble and they could stop a bullet here or there to make his unit look good.
He walked the beach. He looked at the impressions in the sand where bullets had struck. For these smugglers, the living ones and dead one, whose bodies were laid out on the beach, he didn’t have much sympathy. But he would have to process them in a humane way, which was a nuisance.
The hothead who had started the shooting was dead. But the others were bandaged and being held by his young officers, who stood over the prisoners and held them at gunpoint. The surviving invaders were in shock and not inclined to run anywhere.
The major looked out at the water. A Cuban Navy patrol boat, which had arrived in the last few minutes, had seized the skiff and brought it to within fifty feet of shore. It bobbed gently in the waves now, looking innocent.
Mejias glared at it with anger. All the prisoners spoke Spanish, but Mejias had no doubt where they’d come from. Where do the invaders always come from? The north. Well, thanks to the heads-up ahead of time, he knew exactly where these men would land. That’s what had made the gunfire so unnecessary. Inside, his fury only deepened. He had rounded up his officers and had come all the way out from Havana to deal with this. And now it was royally loused up.
One of his sergeants walked over to him. Mejias had the reputation for a nastiness that is particular to small angry men in military hierarchies. They’re like steers that aspire to be bulls but lack the necessary equipment. Hence they feel they had to make up for it with attitude, and incidents like this one didn’t increase Mejias’ charm quotient.
The sergeant stood there, waiting to speak.
Mejias turned to him. “What is it, sergeant?” he asked.
“One of the prisoners says there was a female passenger, sir.”
Mejias looked surprised. “What?” he asked.
“A woman, sir.”
“One of their girlfriends?”
“No, sir. A passenger.”
“?Cubana? ?Norteamericana?” he asked.
“The skiff captain said she was probably American,” the young policeman said, “but she spoke good Spanish.”
Mejias looked away in disgust, then looked back.
“Well, then,” he said. “American. So we’ll have to find her, won’t we? Before anyone else does. Before she can cause trouble.” He motioned rudely to the water. “Or, if we’re very lucky, we’ll find the corpse.”
From the stand of palm trees where she hid, Alex looked toward the area where Leo’s boat had come under attack. She could see the reflection of yellow and red lights flashing on the water, so she knew some activity was continuing. She thought back to the botched landing, the gunfire, the three-man crew, presumably now dead, and then to having no alternative but to dive into the water.
What stayed in her mind most, however, was the shot that Guarneri had sent in her direction. She knew he had not meant to harm her. It had been tough love in its most primitive form. He knew that if there was any specific target on the boat he was probably it. But if they were all to be riddled by bullets, he wanted to allow Alex the chance to survive. Hence, his shot had been meant to get her out of the boat.
It had worked. And it had probably saved her life. Yet there was still something about the man that didn’t add up.
She continued to lurk under the trees, surveying, catching her breath. Not a human was in sight, but she knew that would change quickly if anyone knew that a woman had bailed out of the boat. She needed to get as far away as she could, and as quickly as possible.
She walked up the beach, away from the water. There were not many footprints in the sand, but she carefully stepped in the prints that were there, lessening the chances of being followed. She came to a narrow road that followed the coast. She began to walk. She knew Havana was to the west, so she headed in that direction. Across the street was what appeared to be a small farm. No house in sight, just some scraggly fields and, beyond that, what appeared to be an orchard. She reached for her water bottle. It was sealed. Right now it was her lifeline. Her mouth was parched, so she drank only a third of it, nursing the water.
Then she heard the sound of motors approaching.
On the beach was a small boat, overturned and lying flat, a skiff maybe a dozen feet long. She hurried to it and got down low behind it. She listened to the rumble of approaching motors.
They grew louder. They were traveling slowly from the direction of the botched landing. As the rumbling grew, she could tell it was a small convoy. Then Alex saw headlights on the road and lay as low as she could. Then they were within a hundred feet of her. Peering out from behind the overturned skiff, she could see a large truck, no doubt a police or army vehicle, and three smaller units behind it. The first two were vans. They looked official. Then a private car. A big stretch thing. It looked as if it might be a Volvo.
