The Cuban Affair

  Meanwhile, the Zhuk had changed course in response to my change of course, and so had the Stenka. The Zhuk was gaining on us a bit. Now that I’d changed course and was moving almost directly away from the Stenka, he wouldn’t be in firing range for about fifteen or twenty minutes if my calculations were correct. All we could do now was maintain this heading and hope that the Guarda Frontera boats received orders to give up the pursuit. I mean, hopefully the regime wouldn’t want to cause an international incident on the high seas. True, we were no longer innocent tourists—we were wanted killers—but the bastards in Havana had to decide how to deal with that problem at one in the morning—militarily or diplomatically. I hope they were having as bad a night as I was.

  * * *

  I turned on my chart plotter for the first time and pulled up a view that took in Key West, which was about three hundred and fifty kilometers away—about two hundred miles. I corrected my heading and hit the autopilot, which would continue to correct for drift caused by the weather and currents.

  I had the wind at my back, riding ahead of the storm, which I assumed was still tracking on a northwesterly course, and I was getting a full twenty-five knots out of The Maine.

  The chart clock said it was 1:57 A.M. I should be in Key West by 10, maybe 11 a.m., and in the Green Parrot for lunch. If anyone had an appetite.

  The only problem with this plan was the two Cuban patrol boats, which I assumed still wanted to blow us out of the water.

  I glanced at my radar screen. The Zhuk was still gaining on me, but he’d have to follow me halfway to the Keys before I was in range of his machine guns. And he might do that. I didn’t think I wanted to take him on again. God gives you only one miracle to save your ass. The next one is on you.

  The real problem was still the Stenka. He was doing about forty-five knots, and I remembered him anchored outside the marina—a big bastard, bristling with mounted machine guns, and two gun turrets, fore and aft, that housed the twin rapid-fire cannons. I also pictured him now, cutting through the waves, and the captain staring at his radar, watching the distance between him and me beginning to close.

  I looked again at the chart plotter. I was already too far west to shoot for Andros Island. I would have had to do that soon after I’d exchanged fire with the Zhuk. Now I was in the middle of nowhere, committed to my heading for the Keys, which was the closest land—if you didn’t count Cuba.

  We’d crossed into international waters about fifteen minutes before, and as I suspected, the Guarda Frontera boats also crossed that line without a pause. They were in hot pursuit, and international waters didn’t mean much except that anyone could go there without permission. U.S. territorial waters began twelve nautical miles off the coast of the Keys, and no matter how I did the math, it didn’t look like we were going to get that far before the Stenka caught up to us.

  Jack came into the cabin. “How we doing?”

  “What’s the radio frequency for Dial-a-Prayer?”

  He looked at the radar. “I think you need a higher frequency.”

  “Right.”

  “You got any more tricks up your sleeve?”

  “I’m thinking.” I asked him, “What’s happening below?”

  “Sara’s in the port stateroom, maybe catching some Zs. Felipe’s in the galley lightening our load of rum.”

  “He earned a drink.”

  “You want one?”

  “No. But you go ahead.”

  Jack remembered one of his T-shirts and said, “I only drink a little, but when I do, I become a different person, and that person drinks a lot.”

  I smiled. “I’ll take a smoke.”

  He fished his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, and I could see he was in some pain from where the AK round smacked his vest.

  I took a cigarette and he lit me up with his Zippo, then lit himself up and said, “These things are gonna kill me.”

  “You should live so long.”

  He looked at the fuel gauge, checked out the radar again, then the GPS and chart plotter, but didn’t say anything.

  The seas were getting calmer as we traveled west, and outside the windshield I could see stars peeking through the racing clouds. We had the wind at our backs, and The Maine was making good time. But not good enough.

  My radar was set for six miles, to keep a close eye on our pursuers, whom I’d code-named Asshole A and Asshole B. Asshole A—the Zhuk—actually seemed to have lost ground, and it occurred to me that he may have a fuel situation. If he wasn’t topped off when he left Cayo Guillermo for his nightly patrol, he’d need to calculate how far he could follow me before he ran out of gas in the middle of the ocean.

  I glanced at Asshole B—the Stenka—and saw he was chugging along, making maybe forty-five knots, and closing the gap. This asshole wanted to kill me.

  I adjusted my radar to take in the whole fifty-mile radius of its range, and Jack and I looked for other ships out there, but I saw only two—one to the west heading west along the shipping lane through the Straits of Florida. The other ship was on a heading that would put it into Havana Harbor. The storm had pretty much cleared out the sea to the east and no one was in our vicinity. Even the drug runners were taking the night off.

  I said to Jack, “Broadcast a distress call.”

  He took the mic and began broadcasting, giving our position and heading, and who we were, and the nature of our problem, which he described as two fucking Cuban gunboats trying to kill us.

  I advised him, “Say we also have a fuel situation and an injured crew member.”

  “Who’s injured?”

  “You, asshole.”

  “Right.” He glanced at the fuel gauge, then continued his transmission.

  The rules of the sea—the customs and traditions—say that you need to come to the aid of a ship in distress. But if the distress is a shoot-out on the high seas, there might be a lot of sea captains who’d rather avoid that, on the theory that your distress was not the elements, or an act of God, and not the kind of distress that obligated them to risk their own asses or the asses of their crew or passengers. The fuel situation, however, and the injured crew member might awaken a captain’s sense of brotherly obligation. I suggested, “Tell them we’re running out of booze.”

  Jack, whose dark humor is darker than mine, asked me, “Should I say we came in second in a Cuban fishing tournament?”

  “Worth a try.”

  Jack transmitted again, sticking to the facts, but no one replied. I mean, we could have not mentioned the Cuban gunboats, but that’s not fair. If you ask someone for help, you need to lay out the dangers. If I’d heard this transmission . . . it would depend on whom I had aboard. Or I might wonder what the ship in trouble did to get chased by Cuban gunboats. Or I might think it was a hoax, or a trap to pirate my boat. Lots of stuff happens on the high seas that wouldn’t or couldn’t happen on land. It was a different planet out here; a watery grave, waiting to receive the dead and the soon-to-be-dead.

  I said to Jack, “Okay, we’ll try again later.” Meanwhile, I’d listen for a response. I said to Jack, “I need a damage report.”

  He replied, “It is what you see.”

  “What do I not see?”

  “You don’t see that a few rounds passed through the head, and I think the fresh-water tank sprung a leak.”

  “How’s the beer?”

  “Good. But I think we have a small leak in the fuel tank.”

  I glanced at the fuel gauge and nodded. If we had daylight, I could see if we were leaving a diesel slick behind us. I wasn’t sure if we were leaking diesel or burning it in the rough sea. In either case, Key West was looking less possible. But Key Largo was still within reach if the fuel gauge stopped going south. Fuel, however, was the least of my problems. The Stenka was still the main problem, and he was gaining on us. I tightened the radar image. He was three nautical miles behind us.

  Sara came into the cabin, and Jack, who looked like he was about to pass out, said he was going
below to make some coffee. “You want some?”

  “Sure.” I asked Sara, “How’re you doing?”

  “All right.”

  “How’s Felipe?”

  “He’s in a stateroom.”

  I let her know, “He did good back there.”

  She nodded, and sat in the chair next to me, noticing that I’d turned on the GPS and chart plotter, which reminded both of us of our sunset cruise when we’d looked at Havana Harbor. If we knew then what we knew now, we’d probably both have said buenas noches and have a good life.

  She said, “Talk to me. What’s happening?”

  “Well, we’ve come about eighty miles since our encounter with the Zhuk, and we have maybe a hundred twenty to go before we get into U.S. territorial waters.”

  She nodded. “Will they follow us?”

  “They will break off five or ten miles before they reach that line.” I explained, “Closer than that is a provocation, which will likely lead to a radio warning, and may cause the Coast Guard to send a cutter out.”

  “Okay . . . so we’re halfway home?”

  “We are,” which was true in terms of navigation.

  She looked at the radar screen. “They seem closer.”

  “They are.”

  She didn’t comment.

  We sat at the control console, side by side, looking through the bullet-pocked glass at the clearing sky. The sea was calming down and it was turning out to be a nice night.

  It was 2:46 A.M. now, and if I could maintain twenty or twenty-five knots, and if the fuel held out, and if the Stenka didn’t get in firing range, we’d be okay for a mid-morning arrival at Charter Boat Row.

  I heard something coming out of the speakers, then Bobby Darin started crooning, “Somewhere beyond the sea, somewhere waiting for me, my lover stands on golden sands . . .”

  I would have preferred my Jay Z CD for morale boosting, but Jack wanted to use my CDs for skeet shooting.

  So we cruised along, like this was a sunrise cruise, or a ship of fools singing in the dark.

  I looked at my radar. The Stenka was closer, but I noticed that the Zhuk seemed a bit farther. Then, as I watched, the Zhuk changed course and took a southwesterly heading, toward the Cuban coast. I looked at the chart plotter. It seemed that if the Zhuk maintained his new heading, he’d sail into Matanzas Harbor. I assumed he had a fuel situation. Why else would anyone go to Matanzas? I mean, I’ve been there. The place sucks. But don’t miss the pharmacy museum.

  Sara asked, “What’s happening?”

  I explained, “The Zhuk has broken off the pursuit.” I added, “Must be low on fuel.”

  “Good.” She added, in case I forgot, “God is looking out for us.”

  “Ask him about the Stenka.”

  Jack came into the cabin with my coffee and I advised him of the Zhuk’s change of course, and also asked him to play a CD that was recorded in this century.

  He ignored that and said, “Maybe the Stenka is going to break off.”

  I looked at the radar screen, but the Stenka held his course, and as I tightened the image, I estimated that he was about two miles behind us—and we were within range of his radar-controlled 30mm cannons.

  I said to Jack, “Take the helm.”

  I got up and retrieved the binoculars from a well on top of the console, then exited the cabin.

  Sara called out, “Where are you going?”

  “Be right back.”

  I climbed the side rungs up the tuna tower and stood holding on to the padded bolster, which I felt had a hole through it. Jack was a lucky guy.

  I focused the binocs on the horizon to the east. I couldn’t see the Stenka, but I saw his running lights, so he wasn’t running dark as we were, and there was no reason he should run dark; he was the meanest motherfucker on the water.

  I kept looking at the lights on the horizon, then I saw the unmistakable flashes of rapidly firing guns. Holy shit! I called out, “Evasive action!”

  I expected Jack to hesitate as he comprehended that order, but The Maine immediately cut hard to port, just as I heard the sound of large-caliber rounds streaking past the boat, then I saw them impacting into the sea and exploding where we would have been.

  The Stenka captain wasn’t using tracer rounds, which he’d only use if he could see his target, and with the radar controlling his guns the only thing he wanted to see now was an explosion on the horizon. Meanwhile, I heard Bobby Darin belting out “Mack the Knife.”

  The Maine cut to starboard, held course for a few seconds, then cut to port again. Jack was running a tight zigzag, which hopefully was too erratic for the radar-controlled guns to keep up with. But that didn’t stop the Stenka from trying, and I could see the guns on his forward deck lighting up, and now and then I saw the point of impact on the water where the multiple rounds hit and exploded, then I heard the faint sound of his guns, like rolling thunder on the horizon.

  There was nothing more to see here, and I started to climb down the tower as The Maine kept changing course quickly at twenty-five knots, making the boat roll hard from side to side. I nearly lost my grip a few times, but I got down to the side rail and jumped onto the deck and shoulder-rolled to starboard with the deck, then rolled to port when The Maine quickly changed course.

  I couldn’t stand, so I scrambled into the cabin on my hands and knees and pulled myself into the chair where Sara had been. I assumed Jack had ordered her below.

  Jack was standing at the helm, so I let him keep the wheel because he seemed to know what he was doing, and what he was doing was cutting the throttle as he changed course, then opening the throttle, so he was varying our speed and our course at the same time. He was also singing a duet with Bobby Darin: “Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear, and he—”

  “Jack, shut the fuck up!”

  “Okay.”

  I had no idea if the fire-control radar system was sophisticated enough to keep up with the changing target, but if those twin cannons were also employed as anti-aircraft weapons, they could react quickly. And yet we hadn’t been hit yet.

  Jack glanced at me. “You got any suggestions?”

  “Yeah. Don’t get hit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll take the helm.”

  “I got the rhythm and I don’t want to lose it.”

  “Okay . . . Tell me when you get tired.”

  “We don’t have that long.”

  All of a sudden, a deafening explosion cut through the noise of the sea and the engine, followed by another explosion that shook the boat and knocked me to the deck.

  Jack shouted, “We’ve been hit!”

  I could see down the steps, and saw smoke and fire in the lower cabin. I got to my feet, grabbed a flashlight and the fire extinguisher from the bulkhead, and charged down the steps into the smoke. The only good news was that the entertainment system was silent.

  I didn’t see Sara or Felipe, but I did see that the galley was ablaze and I emptied the fire extinguisher at the flames, then grabbed the galley extinguisher and emptied that, which killed the fire. The smoke was thick, but I could see a gaping hole in the starboard hull of the lower cabin, and smoke coming through the door of the starboard stateroom where the second round must have hit. The wind was streaming in through the hole above the galley, dissipating the smoke, and I ran into the starboard stateroom, which was dark.

  There was a six-inch hole in the hull above the berth, which was empty, but then my flashlight fell on Felipe, who was on the floor. I didn’t see blood and I saw his chest heaving, so I left the room and kicked open the door of the portside stateroom. Sara was curled up on the floor and I knelt beside her. “You okay?”

  She looked up at me, eyes wide, but didn’t reply.

  “Get a life vest on and come to the bottom of the stairs, but stay below until you hear from me. Understood?”

  She nodded.

  I was about to leave, but I asked her, “Where’s your Glock?”

  She didn’
t reply so I shined my light around the stateroom and saw the Glock on the berth. I didn’t want her using it on herself, so I took it and said, “Felipe is in the other stateroom. See if he needs help.” I added, “There’s a first aid kit on the bulkhead in the head—the bathroom. Okay?”

  She nodded and started to get to her feet.

  I left the stateroom, stood under the hatch, and emptied the Glock into the Plexiglas to vent the smoke.

  I went up to the cabin where Jack was still standing at the helm, and I saw he was lighting a cigarette with his magical Zippo, while turning the wheel left and right. He asked, “How’s it look below?”

  “Under control.”

  “Everybody okay?”

  “Felipe might not be.” I told him, “Go below and check him out. Get the first aid kit, and get life jackets on everybody.”

  “We abandoning ship?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s still floating, Mac.”

  “It’s a fucking target, Jack.”

  “So you wanna get eaten by a shark, or you wanna die in an explosion? Which?”

  “I want to get into the water before the Stenka blows up The Maine.”

  “Okay. You think we’ll be picked up by a luxury liner or by the Stenka?”

  “Go below!”

  “Don’t forget the sharks.”

  He moved aside, I took the wheel, and he retreated below.

  I continued the evasive action, cutting the wheel from port to starboard, and I also varied the time between turns. I left the throttle alone, so we were making maximum speed in the hard turns, but the maneuver caused the boat to heel sharply. I didn’t know how best to confuse the radar that was directing the guns, but I had to assume there was some mechanical lag time between the radar locking on and the gun turret moving left or right as the twin guns elevated or lowered to follow the radar-acquired target. Also, there’d be some lag time as the projectiles traveled four thousand meters. I also didn’t know if the guns were fired automatically with the lock-on, or if they were command-fired by the captain or a gunner. All I knew for sure was that the twin 30mm cannons could be outmaneuvered. That’s why we were still alive. But we’d gotten hit, and the odds were that was going to happen again.