“Are you ready to leave?” Fariñas approached with the car keys.
“A slight change of plans.” Pitt pointed out the window. “Can you get me to that yacht moored in the bay?”
Fariñas gazed at the vessel and nodded. “I have a cousin with a boat who can run you over. You sure they’ll let you aboard?”
Pitt smiled. “I’ll bet a Bentley that they will.”
63
Precisely thirty miles due south of Key West, two boats approached each other for a late-afternoon rendezvous. Both were nondescript cabin cruisers, the likes of which flooded the Florida coastlines every summer weekend. But rather than being sailed by half-drunk doctors sporting sunburns, both were crewed by professional security men carrying concealed weapons. Three miles distant, a pair of Apache attack helicopters kept a discreet eye on the proceedings.
The boats approached each other cautiously like a pair of wary boxers facing off in the ring for the first time. A light breeze ruffled small flags above each pilothouse, one Cuban and the other American.
As crewmen swapped lines and tied the boats side by side, Vice President James Sandecker emerged from the cabin of the American boat and stepped to the side rail. He extended a hand to a gray-haired man on the other boat.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” Sandecker said.
Raúl Castro shook Sandecker’s hand with a firm grip. “It is an honor, Mr. Vice President.”
“Please, call me James. May I come aboard?”
“Of course.” Castro maintained his grip on Sandecker’s hand as the Vice President hopped boats. The Cuban president regarded Sandecker up close, noting he was shorter than he appeared on television. But there was something of a revolutionary fire in the man’s blue eyes that he instantly admired.
“Call me Raúl,” he said. “Come, let us sit on the stern deck and talk.”
Sandecker waved off his Secret Service detail, and Castro did the same to his men. The two leaders stepped to the stern and sat beneath a shade canopy.
“Bring us some rum brandies,” Castro called to an aide before addressing Sandecker.
“James, I thank you for agreeing to see me. I never expected that the government of the United States would warn me of a threat on my life. On account of you, I am alive today. I would like to thank you, and your President, for saving me from death.”
“The President was disturbed when our intelligence people pieced together the details of the assassination attempt, particularly since it occurred out of your country. The President and I are pleased you are safe and well.” Sandecker cleared his throat. “The President feels this would be a good opportunity to advance our relationship from the shadows of the Cold War.”
Castro nodded, staring out with a distant gaze. “This, too, has been heavy on my heart since my brother died. At one time, my country needed Fidel as much as he needed the people. But that day is long past. For all of the good that Fidel accomplished, he didn’t allow Cuba to grow. It is past time for our people to prosper.”
He looked Sandecker in the eye. “James, as you know, I have announced I will not seek reelection in 2018. I intend to appoint Foreign Minister Ruiz to succeed me. He is a strong proponent of introducing market economics and improving relations with your country.”
He took a deep breath. “In my remaining days in office, I have decided to pave the way for his initiatives.”
“We have a two-and-a-half-century history of free market democracy. We can help lead you down the right path.”
A burden seemed to lift from the shoulders of the old Marxist. “It is not an easy thing to abandon the road of the past, but at the same time, it can be liberating.”
An aide arrived with the rum brandies, and the two drank a toast to their improved relations.
“Raúl, I have a question,” Sandecker said. “Unofficial reports are circulating widely that you were killed in the Cayman Islands. Why have you not gone public and dispelled those rumors?”
Castro’s eyes clouded with anger. “We still don’t know who hired the mercenaries to conduct the attack. If those responsible believe I am dead, they will soon act in a way that identifies their guilt.”
“A sound tactic,” Sandecker said, “but I think I can point you in the right direction.” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed Castro a folded sheet of paper. “We were curious as well and performed a trace on the funds paid to the mercenaries. Tracking the payment backward from the drop account, we found it had been flushed through no less than three Cayman Islands accounts, each at a different bank. The trail then led through a Venezuelan bank, and finally to a national account in Havana. That’s as far as we could get. You’ll note the account is a registered repository of the Interior Ministry.”
Castro studied the paper wide-eyed. “Gutier! Of course. He has a history of extremism, and his ambition is legendary. If I were out of the picture, he could rely on the support of the Army to strong-arm his way to the presidency. It’s no secret he covets my job. I guess he couldn’t wait . . . or stand to see Ruiz take my place.”
“I’m sorry,” Sandecker said. “Treachery from within is hard to face.”
“No, I thank you for revealing this rabid dog. I’ve always had my reservations about the man, but he is a capable leader who has served the state well for many years.”
“Does his role in the military create any complications?”
“Absolutely not. My Minister of the Revolutionary Armed Forces has stood with me for forty years.” He softened his tone. “I’m sorry, James, but the loss of loyalty is difficult to bear.”
“I understand. It is your matter to resolve.”
“The positive is that it has created a building block to our friendship.” Castro finished his drink.
“Agreed,” Sandecker said. “Still, there are two issues on our side of the fence that may prove a hindrance in moving ahead.”
“What would that be?”
“The first comes from Asia. We’ve received a troubling communiqué from our friends in the South Korean National Intelligence Service. They got wind of a rumored deal between Pyongyang and your country. A source alleges that Cuba is providing North Korea a large quantity of high-grade uranium oxide for use in their enrichment facilities. In exchange, North Korea is offering you a small number of tactical nuclear weapons.”
“What?” Castro popped out of his chair. “That is preposterous. Your intelligence is completely mistaken.”
“You have had some small-arms trades with North Korea in the past.”
“True, but they were minute quantities. We have very little business with North Korea. I assure you, James, I have no knowledge of such an agreement. We have no uranium mining on our island to begin with. And we certainly have no need, or desire, for nuclear weapons.”
“I am happy to hear that. Intelligence errors do happen, and anything out of North Korea tends to be unreliable.”
Castro nodded. “That must be the case. It is a mad proposition, but fear not. Now, you indicated there was another matter that concerned you?”
“Yes, a secondary issue of great concern to me personally. It’s our NUMA research vessel Sargasso Sea. You are holding it captive in Cuban waters.”
A blank look fell over Castro’s face. “What do you mean?”
Sandecker explained the sudden loss of communications and the satellite photos showing it afloat in Cuban territorial waters.
Castro shook his head. “I’m sorry, James, I know nothing of this. Are you sure the vessel hasn’t just experienced equipment problems?”
“The satellite photos show no evidence of fire or damage. And the ship has multiple means of communication. We sent a Coast Guard vessel to investigate, but they were driven away by a Cuban Navy vessel. We believe the Sargasso Sea has been apprehended by hostile forces.”
“It is possible a regional naval u
nit is responsible, but this incident has not been reported in Havana.”
“There are fifty people aboard, some of them close friends. I’d take it as a personal favor if you could let me know what’s going on.”
“Of course. I understand your concern. I promise to look into the matter immediately upon my return to the capital.”
A short distance off the stern, a large fish jumped out of the water, catching both men’s attention.
“Do you like to sport fish, James?” Castro asked.
“It’s been a few years since I battled the big ones,” Sandecker said.
“You and I, we must go fishing on our next visit. The blue marlin in the Florida Straits is the best in the world.”
“Reason enough to meet again soon,” Sandecker said, standing and shaking hands. “I can think of nothing I’d like better.”
64
Riding in the passenger seat this time, Pitt joined the elderly couple for the drive down the hill in the Plymouth. He wore a borrowed straw hat and sunglasses as a minor attempt at cover. There were no roadblocks along the way, though they spotted a speeding military truck as they crossed the paved road.
Fariñas drove through a neighborhood of run-down block houses before stopping at a pink one near the water. An ebullient man with large ears emerged and Fariñas introduced him as his cousin.
“My boat is this way,” the man said. “Come, I can run you over right now.”
Pitt shook Fariñas’s hand and gave Maria a hug. “I won’t forget your kindness.”
“Keep up the good fight, Mr. Pitt,” she said. “And good luck to you and your daughter.”
The cousin led him to a small fishing boat beached on the sand. They dragged it into the water and climbed aboard. A rickety outboard was started and a few minutes later they pulled alongside the stern of Mark Ramsey’s yacht, Gold Digger. A muscle-laden crewman appeared and motioned for them to move away.
“Is Mark aboard?” Pitt shouted.
“Who wants to know?”
“A Bentley driver by the name of Pitt.”
The crewman gave Pitt an annoyed look, then spoke into a handheld radio. His features softened when the radio squawked a minute later and he waved the boat alongside. Pitt thanked Fariñas’s cousin and hopped aboard.
“Mr. Ramsey will be pleased to see you in the salon.” The crewman guided Pitt across the open stern deck and through a pair of French doors.
Dressed in a sport shirt and slacks, Ramsey sat at a table, poring through a stack of seismic surveys. He stood up and greeted Pitt with a warm smile. “You’re a long way from the track, Mr. Pitt. How on earth did you find me here?”
“Your red grizzly bear logo. I remembered it from your car hauler in Washington. I’ve also seen it on another vessel in the area, a mining ship called the Sea Raker.”
“Yes, that’s our flagship deep-sea mining vessel. But you must be mistaken. The Sea Raker is operating under charter in the Pacific off of Nicaragua.”
He showed Pitt to a chair, noticing his disheveled appearance and the bandage on his neck. “What exactly are you doing here?”
“In a word, mercury. I was tracking the dispersal of toxic mercury plumes that have occurred in the Caribbean. They are being created by the destruction of undersea hydrothermal vents. Your ship, the Sea Raker, is responsible for the damage.”
Ramsey shook his head. “No, the Sea Raker is in the Pacific.”
“I was aboard her two days ago not thirty miles from here. We were investigating the seafloor in a submersible and were abducted by one of the ship’s mining machines. We were brought aboard the Sea Raker a short time before being taken to shore. I managed to escape, but my daughter is still being held prisoner.”
“Why would the Sea Raker abduct you?”
“Because they are blowing up thermal vents in order to mine deposits of uranium buried within them.”
Ramsey looked at Pitt like he’d just stepped off a flying saucer. “Uranium? You’re mad. The ship was chartered to mine gold off Nicaragua.”
Pitt shook his head. “Perhaps they started with gold, but they’ve graduated to uranium in the Caribbean. They have a stockpile down the coast that was being loaded aboard an outbound freighter just today.”
“That can’t be. I know uranium deposits coexist with other minerals, but I’ve never heard of it being commercially mined undersea. Why would they be doing so?”
“You’d have to talk to a Cuban named Juan Díaz.”
“Díaz? He took possession of the ship on behalf of a Panamanian venture. You know him?”
“He seems to be running the show. And he’s the one holding my daughter.”
Ramsey could see from the intense look in Pitt’s eyes that he was telling the truth. “I’m so sorry,” he said in a shaken voice.
“That’s not the worst of it. High-grade uranium ore apparently exists in the deep core of the thermal vents in this region. Somewhere within the layers of sediment is a concentration of mercury, probably laid down during the Triassic Period. Díaz and his Cuban Army pals have blasted open several vents in the Caribbean—and one nearby—that have released large plumes of mercury,” said Pitt. “As we speak, they are preparing to blast a pair of very large thermal vents in the middle of the Florida Straits. If they succeed, the mercury plumes will likely expand to the Gulf Stream. It will be the environmental disaster of the century.”
Ramsey sank into his chair with the look of a shattered soul. “I’ve built my career on prudent mining, using the least invasive environmental techniques possible. I would have never provided my equipment and expertise had I known that’s what they were up to.”
He shook his head slowly. “I should have known something wasn’t right. They were extremely secretive about their mining plans, which isn’t unusual when gold is at stake. But everything was handled as a military operation. They insisted on crewing my ship with their own men. I never imagined they could create such harm in the few months that they’ve leased the Sea Raker.”
“There’s also a high likelihood they were responsible for sinking the drill ship Alta.”
Ramsey stared at the plush carpet, overwhelmed by what he’d been told. “You say they are about to blast more vents? What can we do to stop them?”
“Two things,” Pitt said. “Get this yacht to the Sea Raker as fast as you can and find a way to sneak me aboard. In the meantime, please show me to a radio. I’d like to call my ship.”
65
The Domingo 2 hydrothermal vent emerged like a shattered kaleidoscope amid a barren desert. At a depth of twelve hundred feet, the surrounding seabed was a cold, muddy plain devoid of life and color.
The Sea Raker’s auxiliary cutter had excavated a linear trench near the vent’s core as a place to deposit the bulk explosives. At the trench’s epicenter, a narrow, deeper cut had been made for inserting the high explosives.
A suspended platform, filled with the crated bags of ANFO explosives, was lowered nearby. The bulk cutter, using its heavy manipulator arm, clasped one of the crates and transported it to the trench. In a few hours, more than five thousand pounds of explosives had been laid in the heart of the thermal vent.
On the surface, Díaz’s crew boat approached the marionette-like operation performed by the Sea Raker. Summer noted the bright deck lights were reflecting off the water as dusk settled over a calm sea. The barge, still laden with explosives for the second thermal vent, was tied alongside the mining ship’s port flank. As they approached the barge, they saw the auxiliary cutter machine, finished with its seafloor ditch digging, being hoisted back aboard.
The crew boat tied up aft of the barge, and Díaz climbed a lowered ladder. Summer remained seated in the passenger bay as two soldiers boarded the boat. One took up position in the pilothouse while the other grabbed her elbow and escorted her aboard the Sea Raker.
A mining engineer greeted Díaz, then led them to a large prefabricated building on the center deck. Summer felt like she had entered a smaller version of NASA’s fabled Houston Control Center. Multiple rows of manned computer stations filled the room, all facing a giant video screen. Each workstation controlled an element of the subsea mining operation, with the collector, cutter machines, and ROVs operated by toggled panels and joysticks. Video feeds from each underwater device fed into the multiscreen video board.
Summer observed the live underwater footage from two ROVs, while the two raised cutter machines showed deck shots from their multiple cameras.
Díaz took a seat at a leather armchair in front of the video screen while Summer was escorted to a nearby bench.
The mining engineer stood in front and spoke to Díaz. “We have completed trenching and placement of the base explosives. We are well positioned at the vent, so the deployment went quicker than expected. As you probably saw, both the bulk cutter and the auxiliary cutter have been returned to the ship.”
Díaz pointed to the screen. “But the high explosives have not yet been set?”
One of the cameras on the bulk cutter showed several crewmen coiling a long, tube-shaped charge about the deck.
“The bulk cutter still needs to place the TNT sleeve and detonator into the base of the thermal fissure. Then we’ll be able to fire. We should be ready to lower the charge and the cutter in about ten minutes.”
“Very well. I’ll watch the operations from here.”
The engineer nodded as a nearby phone rang. He answered and passed the receiver to Díaz. “The captain has a question for you from the bridge.”
As Díaz took the call, the engineer stepped to one of the work consoles and conversed with its operator.
Summer was alert to it all. Since entering the control center, she had seen that the operators were too engaged in their duties to pay her any attention. With Díaz and the engineer temporarily occupied, she looked about for her guard. He was leaning against the wall at the side of the room, watching the underwater video feeds.