“It was you,” she said, reaching up to her father’s face and stroking away a tear.
78
General Alberto Gutier walked into the office of the vice president and sized it up for himself. It was a spacious enclave on the top floor of the Cuban Communist Party headquarters, featuring a private bathroom and an impressive city view. Gutier took a quick glance out the window at the José Marti Memorial, which stood illuminated against the night sky. The office would do quite nicely, he thought, once the antiquated décor of its current occupant was removed.
Although Vice President César Alvarez was over eighty and in frail health, his mind was still quick. He remained seated behind a large desk as Gutier was escorted into the room.
“Mr. Vice President,” Gutier said, “you are looking well this evening.”
“Thank you, General,” Alvarez said in a raspy voice. “Please, take a seat.”
“Why do you wish to see me at this late hour?”
“The news from the Cayman Islands is not good.”
“It is a terrible tragedy.”
“What is the latest information that you have?” Alvarez asked.
“Nothing more than the official reports,” Gutier said. “There was an explosion on a yacht shortly after the president stepped aboard. No one has seen him since, so it is presumed he perished in the blast.”
“Rescue teams have been unable to identify any remains, so there can be no hope.” The vice president shook his head. “Who would want to harm the president?”
“Who but the CIA?” Gutier said. “They tried to kill Fidel and now they have succeeded with Raúl.”
“What are you saying? You can’t honestly believe it was the Americans?”
“Most certainly. I had in custody the man responsible. He was an American marine engineer who was found with explosives off our shores. Regrettably, he was killed in transit to Havana in a helicopter crash.”
“That is a serious allegation.”
“Do not worry. We will manage the affairs of state confidently together and stand tall against the cultural intrusion by the Americans. Very soon, we will be stronger than you can imagine.”
“We?”
“When you assume the presidency, Cuba will need a new vice president. I stand ready to serve our nation in this capacity.”
“The president had indicated his desire for a succession that includes Foreign Minister Ruiz. I thought, perhaps, you knew that.”
“Ruiz can hardly be appointed to anything now, given his reckless admiration for America.” Gutier gave the old politician a haughty stare. “I need not remind you where the Revolutionary Army would stand on the matter.”
Alvarez returned Gutier’s look with his own wizened gaze. “Yes, I see what you mean. That could indeed prove unpopular.” He looked at his watch as if realizing he’d missed an appointment and rose from his chair.
“General, if you’ll please excuse me for a moment, I’ll be right back.” The aged man shuffled out of the office, closing the door behind him.
Gutier sat back and grinned. The vice presidency would be his. Then it would be only a matter of time before he ascended to the presidency. He would take delight in his first act, demoting Ruiz to serve as a Party representative on a pig farm somewhere in the hinterlands.
His jubilant vision was interrupted by a shuffling sound nearby. A figure emerged from the office’s small bathroom.
Dressed in a gray suit and crisp white shirt, Raúl Castro appeared nothing like the ghost he should have been. “Good evening, General.” Castro settled into Alvarez’s chair.
“Mr. President,” Gutier stammered. “I thought you were dead.”
“Of course you did. Clever of you to blame the CIA when they are the ones who alerted me to your assassination attempt. I didn’t want to believe it, but hearing your aspirations just now confirms the truth.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Of course you did. The official reports from the Cayman Islands all indicate there was a fire aboard the yacht. Nobody said a word about an explosion. Nobody but you.”
Gutier was too stunned to think clearly. “But I saw a video of you boarding the boat just before it exploded.”
Castro smiled. “A nice double, wasn’t he? Jorge Castenada. A deranged farmer who killed his family several years ago and was serving a life sentence in Boniato Prison. He was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, so he didn’t have long to live before you murdered him. Remember the name, though, because now it is yours.”
The door to the office burst open and four security guards charged in, followed by Vice President Alvarez. The guards wrenched Gutier to his feet and cuffed his hands behind his back. As they started to drag him to the door, he cried out to Castro, “Stop. This is a mistake. You must listen to me.”
“Good-bye, Jorge Castenada,” Castro said.
“What do you mean by calling me that?”
Castro held up his hand to halt the guards. He stepped close and looked Gutier up and down with contempt. “Yesterday, General Alberto Gutier was killed in the accidental crash of an Army helicopter off the northern coast. Jorge Castenada, meanwhile, is returning to solitary confinement in Boniato Prison, where he will serve out the remainder of his life sentence without parole.”
Castro nodded and the guards dragged the defeated general out of the office. His screams of protest gradually receded down the building’s back stairwell.
“I always thought the man was vermin,” Alvarez said quietly.
“He and his brother both, apparently. A healthy lesson, I believe, in where the country shouldn’t go.”
“Minister Ruiz believes greater liberty for the people will prevent his type from gaining power.”
“Perhaps he is right.”
“What next, Mr. President?”
Castro stared out the open door for several moments. “I believe my next order of business is to pay a visit to the harbor docks.”
79
The morning sun washed over the Gold Digger and the Sargasso Sea as they sat moored bow to stern at the Port of Havana’s Terminal Sierra Maestra. Shortly after the Starfish was recovered, a Cuban Navy corvette had joined the two vessels to assist with the rescue efforts. The corvette then acted as a voluntary escort for the ships’ passage to Havana. Military ambulances were waiting on the docks and took the Sea Raker’s survivors to an Army hospital under tight security.
Pitt and Gunn stood conversing on the bridge, upwind of Giordino with a freshly lit Ramón Allones he held tightly in his teeth. A crewman entered with a befuddled look. “Sir, you have a visitor,” he said to Pitt, then stood aside.
Raúl Castro, joined by an aide, walked in without pretense and introduced himself. The startled Americans stepped forward and shook hands, welcoming the Cuban president aboard.
“I’m told you uncovered an unauthorized uranium mining operation in my country and also prevented a great environmental catastrophe,” Castro said.
Pitt nodded. “I’m glad to hear the mining operation was not of your doing. Unfortunately, several lives were lost, and a rather expensive mining ship was sunk, which may accrue to your government.”
Castro shrugged off the liability. “My brother and I used to fish the waters off of Havana and Matanzas. It would hurt me to see harm done to the sea. The thermal vents there are now safe?”
“Yes, though there are still explosives in place at one site that will have to be removed.”
“What about these mercury releases?” Castro asked.
“That is still a problem,” Gunn said. “Both here and to the south of Cuba, there are active toxic plumes.”
“We may have a solution,” Pitt said. “Mark Ramsey believes he can convert one of his underwater mining machines into a type of bulldozer. The machine could fill in a large portion of the currently e
xposed vents with sediment from the seafloor. This would minimize, if not altogether extinguish, the release of mercury.”
“My government stands ready to assist in any way we can.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Gunn said.
Castro turned to Pitt. “My brother once mentioned your name. You helped save Havana from ruin at one time.”
“It was many years ago,” Pitt said.
“You are a true friend of Cuba.” Castro eyed the box of cigars Giordino had brought to the bridge. “I see you have already partaken in our fine tobacco. Is there anything else I can offer you in appreciation?”
“Mr. President, there is a Spanish shipwreck off of Punta Maisí that we would like to explore. It may be carrying a Mesoamerican artifact that Juan Díaz was pursuing.”
“I’ve been told that Díaz kept a warehouse filled with antiquities, which shall now be turned over to our National Museum of Natural History. You have my permission to explore the wreck, but I’d ask that any artifacts you recover be provided to the museum.”
“Of course.”
Castro turned to leave and Pitt escorted him to the bridge wing. The morning light cast the buildings of old Havana in a swath of gold. Castro waved his arm toward the city.
“This is a very special place. I can tell you, the people of Havana and all of Cuba are grateful for the harm you prevented. It is, I suspect, more than you know.”
“The people of Cuba are worthy of good things,” Pitt said. He observed Castro take in the beauty of the old city and a thought occurred to him.
“Mr. President, there’s nothing more you can do for me, but there is something you could do for Cuba.”
Castro looked at Pitt and nodded. “For Cuba, anything.”
80
That was the target. Algonquin. Haasis wasn’t keen on shooting an unarmed merchant ship, but those were his orders. A single torpedo was to be fired to sink her. Pacific Fleet Command wanted it to look like an accident—to the extent that torpedoing a ship could be so disguised. Fat chance, Haasis thought. But at least in the middle of the Pacific, it would take a significant effort on somebody’s part to prove the truth.
“Weapons Control, prep torpedo one,” he said.
Haasis remained glued to the periscope as a Mark 48 torpedo was loaded into the number one torpedo tube and the tube flooded. The captain looked at the merchant ship for another minute before calmly calling out, “Fire number one.”
A faint swoosh sounded from the sub’s bow, and Haasis counted the seconds for the torpedo to reach its target. The Liberian-registered ship shuddered and a small plume of black smoke arose amidships. With relief, Haasis saw two lifeboats quickly lowered with a full complement of crew. Its keel shattered by the blast, the heavily loaded ore carrier broke into two pieces, which sank simultaneously ten minutes later.
“Nice shooting, gentlemen,” Haasis said. “We’ll show the video in the mess at dinner tonight.”
He turned to the officer of the deck. “Parker, alert the Oregon to the sinking vessel. They’ll be able to pick up the survivors.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said.
He returned to the captain’s side a short time later. “Message sent and confirmed, sir. The Oregon is on her way.”
“Very good.”
“Sir, if I may ask? I recall seeing the Oregon when we were in Osaka a few months ago. She’s a run-down, dilapidated old freighter. How is it this ship is the only one in the area?”
Haasis shook his head. “I don’t have all the answers, son. I just take my orders and follow them to the best of my ability.”
“Yes, sir.”
Yet the order to sink the ore carrier was one that didn’t sit well with Haasis. The captain had been given no explanation, only the required outcome. For the remainder of the Asheville’s cruise, the act gnawed at his conscience and kept him turning in his bunk at night. Not until a month later, after the Asheville returned to Point Loma Submarine Base, was he told the full nature of the mission. The Algonquin was carrying a cargo of high-grade uranium oxide to North Korea, enough to arm dozens of nuclear warheads. After hearing the truth—and accepting a unit commendation on behalf of his boat—the veteran captain never lost a night’s sleep again.
81
It appears someone is guarding the nest,” Gunn said.
He passed a pair of binoculars to Pitt, who stood beside him on the bridge of the Sargasso Sea. The NUMA ship was a dozen miles off the eastern tip of Cuba, sailing through a light sea.
Pitt focused the lenses on a modern survey vessel standing at station a half mile ahead. “We know that Díaz, after stealing Perlmutter’s research documents, sent his mining facility manager to locate the San Antonio,” Pitt said. “That must be him.”
“He’s the last one to be accounted for,” Gunn said. “I hear Perlmutter’s Cuban burglar didn’t fare too well. He was in the country illegally—and being watched by the FBI for industrial spying. They picked him up shortly after Perlmutter’s incident, and he will be sent away for a long while.”
Giordino stepped over as the NUMA ship converged on the other vessel. “Perhaps we should tell those boys thanks for pointing out the wreck site. Saved us a couple of days’ searching.”
Gunn smiled. “I don’t suspect they’d consider it too kindly.”
The bridge radio crackled with a gruff, accented voice. “Calling the American vessel. You are in protected waters. Leave the vicinity at once or you will be fired upon.”
“I told you they’d be touchy,” Gunn said.
“Reason enough to call in our backup friends,” Pitt said. He switched frequencies and made a call to shore, then dialed back to the survey boat. “This is the research vessel Sargasso Sea. You have twenty minutes to vacate the site and make for Baracoa or we will fire on you.”
Pitt’s message was met with a flurry of Spanish invectives.
“More than touchy,” Giordino said, “they’re downright grouchy.”
“Then we better dance a bit until the mosquitoes show up.”
Pitt had the NUMA ship turn away and sail slowly toward the Cuban coastline. Twenty minutes later, the ship reversed course, crawling back within a hundred yards of the survey vessel. Blistering threats again emanated from the ship’s radio, but Pitt ignored them.
Gunn pointed out the bridge window. “They’re showing their firepower,” he said with a nervous twitch.
A half-dozen men in military garb took up position along the survey ship’s rail, pointing assault rifles. One appeared to be wielding a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.
“All crew members off the deck,” Pitt called over the Sargasso Sea’s PA system.
The radio blared again. This time, Pitt recognized the voice of Molina.
“This is your last chance. Leave the area at once or we open fire.”
Pitt could see Molina step out of the bridge. A thumping noise sounded as the Cuban leader yelled to his men. The soldiers froze as the ocean in front of them rippled in a fountain of spray. An instant later, a military helicopter burst by, skimming low over the water just feet from the survey ship. The sky darkened briefly as three more helos arrived and circled the ship, firing into the water along her flanks.
They were a squadron of Cuban Mil Mi-24 attack helicopters from a nearby base. Pitt could hear the lead pilot radioing the survey ship and threatening instant destruction if they didn’t move.
Molina reluctantly obeyed, getting the ship under way and heading to port with an unwanted airborne escort.
Under Giordino’s direction, a side-scan sonar fish was lowered off the stern and the NUMA crew began surveying the seafloor. Within an hour, a small shipwreck appeared on the monitor, not far from the survey ship’s stationary position. Molina had indeed been guarding the nest.
The sonar fish was retrieved while the Starfish, repaired
and refreshed, was prepared for launch. Pitt had his two children meet him at the submersible. “This is your hunt,” he told them. “You go down and find it.”
“You don’t have to ask twice.” Dirk quickly climbed into the craft. Summer gave her father a quick hug. “Thanks for indulging us.”
“Just remember to come back up on your own this time.”
A short time later, the submersible reached the seabed at a depth of five hundred feet. Gunn had parked the Sargasso Sea right on target. The shipwreck was instantly visible. Dirk guided the submersible over the wreck and inspected its remains.
Perlmutter’s research described the San Antonio as a steam packet built in Belfast in 1887. The years submerged since her sinking had not been kind. The ship’s wood hull and decks had mostly disappeared, leaving little more than a stout keel rising from the sand.
Dirk hovered the Starfish over the wreck’s midpoint, where the San Antonio’s boiler stood upright like a lone sentry in a garden of disintegrating machinery. Off the stern, a bronze propeller glinted under the submersible’s floodlights, the only object appearing to have survived the ravages of time unscathed.
“The marine organisms must have left town on a full stomach,” Summer said. “There’s hardly any wood left.”
“Good thing they don’t like to eat stone. It might actually help in exposing more of the wreck site.”
Starting at the bow, they began a thorough inspection, poking and prodding the Starfish’s manipulator through the scattered debris. Reaching the boiler again, Summer waved her finger ahead. “There it is, leaning against the side of the boiler!”
Dirk eased the Starfish in for a closer look. A large semicircular stone with a carved surface sat upright among the debris, propped against the side of the boiler. It was identical in size to the stone they’d found at Zimapán.
“It must have been on the main deck and slipped down when the ship disintegrated.” Dirk high-fived his sister. “Good going, girl.”