Cuba (15 page)

and lit one. The nearest apartments were at least sixty

meters away, although for safety reasons the distance

should have been much more. Each of the extra-high-voltage

(Ehv) lines overhead carried 500,000

volts.

The driver of the van was Enrique Poveda. His

passenger was Arquimidez Cabrera. Both men were

citizens of the United States, sons of Cuban

exiles, and bitter enemies of the Castro regime.

Poveda had parked the van so that the rear doors, when

open, almost touched the gate in the chain-link fence.

Now he reached into the van, seized a set of bolt

cutters, and applied the jaws to the padlock on the

gate. One tremendous squeeze and the bar of the

padlock snapped.

Cabrera threw the remnants of the padlock into the

back of the van. He opened the gate in the fence,

set a new, open padlock on the hasp, and stood

looking up at the tower.

The best way to cut the power lines the tower carried

would be to climb the tower and set shaped charges around the

insulators. Unfortunately, the lines carried so

much juice that the hot zones around the wires were

eleven feet in diameter, more in humid weather.

No, the only practical way to cut the lines was

to drop the towers, which would not be difficult. A shaped

charge on each leg should do the job nicely.

Cabrera looked at the angle of the wires leading

into the tower, and the angle away. Yes, once the

legs were severed, the weight and tension of the line should

pull the tower down to the side away from the canal,

into this open area, where the lines would either short out on the

ground or break from the strain of carrying their own

weight.

Timing the explosions would be a problem. This close

to all that energy, a radio-controlled electrical

detonator was out of the question. Chemical timers would be

best, ones that ignited the detonators after a

preset time, although chemical timers were not as

precise as mechanical ones.

All that was for a later day, however. The decision on

when the tower must come down had yet to be made, so today

Cabrera and Poveda would merely set the charges.

They would return later to set the timers and

detonators.

Poveda finished his cigarette and strapped on his

tool belt. This was the fourth tower today. Only this

one and one more to go.

“You ready”…”…he asked Cabrera.

“Let’s do it.”

Ocho Sedano lived with his older brother Julio,

Julio’s wife, and their two children in a tiny apartment

atop a garage just a few hundred yards from Dona

Maria’s house. Julio worked in the garage

repairing American cars. The cars were antiques

from the 1950’s and there were no spare parts, so Julio

made parts or cannibalized them from the carcasses

behind the garage, cars too far gone for any mechanic

to save. When he wasn’t playing baseball,

Ocho helped.

Hector found his brother Julio working in the shop

by the light of several naked bulbs. “Where is

Ocho?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

Julio was replacing the valves of an ancient

straight eight under the hood of an Oldsmobile.

The light was terrible, but he was working by feel so it

didn’t really matter. He straightened now,

scowled at his older brother.

“He has gone to try his luck in America.”

“You didn’t try to stop him?”

Julio looked about at the dimly lit shop, the

dirt floor, the shabby old cars. He wiped his

hands on a dirty rag that hung from his belt.

“No, I didn’t.”

“What if he drowns out there in the Gulf Stream?”

“I have prayed for him.”

“That’s it? Your little brother? A prayer?”

“What do you think I should have done, Hector?

Tell the boy that he was living smack in the middle

of a communist paradise, that he should be happy here,

happy with his labor and his crust? Bah! He

wants something more from life, something for himself, for his

children.”

“If he dies”

“Look around you, Hector. Look at this

squalid, filthy hovel. Look at the way we

live! Most of Cuba lives this way,

except for a precious few like dear Maximo, who

eats the bread that other men earn. You saw him

yesterday at Mima’snothing’s too good for our

dedicated revolutionary, Maximo Sedano,

Fidel’s right-hand ass-wipe man,”

Julio snorted scornfully, then leaned back under

the hood of the Olds. “I told Ocho to go with

God. I pfayed for him.”

“What if he dies out there?”

“Everybody has to dieyou, me, Fidel, Ocho,

all of usthat’s just the way it is. They ought to teach

you that in church. At least if Ocho dies he

won’t have to listen to any more of Fidel’s bullshit.

He won’t have to listen to

yours, either. God knows, bullshit is the only thing

on this island wecomh a lot of.”

“Have you told

Mima

that he left?”

“I was going to keep my mouth shut until I had

something to tell her.”…Julio turned his head to look

at Hector around the edge of the car’s hood. “Ocho

is a grown man. He has taken his life in his

own two hands, which is his right. He’ll

live or die. He’ll get to America or he

won’t.”

“He should have waited. I asked him to wait.”

“For what”…”…Julio demanded.

Hector turned to leave the garage.

“What are we waiting for, Hector? The second

coming?”

Julio came to the door and called after Hector as

he walked away down the street: “How long do I

have to wait to feed my sons? Tell me! I have

waited all my life. I am sick and tired of

waiting. I want to know

nowhow much longer?”

Hector turned in the road and walked back toward

Julio. “Enough!

Enough!”

he roared, his voice carrying. “You squat here in this

hovel waiting for life to get better, waiting for

someone else to make it better! You have no courage

you are not a man! If the future depends on

rabbits like you Cuba will always be a sewer!”

Then Hector turned and stalked away, his head

down, his shoulders bent forward, as if he were walking

into a great wind.

The Officers’ Club at Guantanamo

Bay Naval Station was sited on a small hill

overlooking the harbor. From the patio Toad

Tarkington and Rita Moravia could see the carrier

swinging on her anchor near the mouth of the bay.

These days the O Club was usually sparsely

populated. The base was now a military

backwater, no longer a vital part of the U.s.

military establishment. For the last few years the

primary function of the base was to house Cuban

refugees picked up at sea.

Still, the deep blue Caribbean water and low yellow

bills

under a periwinkle sky packed picture-postcard

charm. With cactus and palm trees and magnificent

sunny days, the place reminded Toad of southern

California. If the Cubans ever got their act

together politically, he thought, this place would boom like

southern California, with condos and high-tech

industries sprouting like weeds. Hordes of people waving

money would come here from Philly and New Jersey

to retire. This place had Florida beat all

to hell.

He voiced this opinion to Rita, the only other

person on the patio. It was early in the afternoon; the

two of them had ridden the first liberty boat

in after the ship anchored. Jake Grafton sent them

packing because today was their anniversary.

They had a room reserved at the BOQ for tonight.

They intended to eat a relaxed dinner at the club,

just the two of them, then retire for a private

celebration.

“The Cubans may not want hordes from Philly

and Hoboken and Ashtabula moving inea”…Rita

objected.

“I wouldn’t mind having a little place in one of these

villages around here my own selfea”…Toad said,

gesturing vaguely to the west or north. “Do some

fishing, lay around getting old and fat and tan, let

life flow by. Maybe build a golf course,

spend my old age selling balls and watering

greens. This looks like world-class golf country

to me. Aaah, someday.”

“Someday, busterea”…Rita said, grinning. Toad

liked to entertain her with talk about retirement, about

loafing away the days reading novels and newspapers

and playing golf, yet by ten o’clock on a lazy

Sunday morning in the States he was bored stiff.

He played golf once every other year, if it

didn’t rain.

Now he sipped his beer and inhaled a few

mighty lungfuls of this clean, clear, perfect

air. “Feel that sun! Ain’t life delicious,

woman?”

They had a nice dinner of Cuban cuisine, a

fresh fish, beans and rice. By that time the club was

filling up with junior officers from the squadrons

aboard ship, in for lib-

erty. The noise from the bars was becoming raucous when

Toad and Rita finished their dinner and headed back

to the patio with cups of coffee.

“Maybe I better check on my

chicksea”…Rita said, and detoured for the bar.

Toad paused in the doorway, staring into the dark

room, which was made darker by the brilliant sunlight

shining outside the windows.

“Commander Tarkingtonff”…Two of the young pilots

came over to where Toad stood with his coffee cup.

“Join us for a few minutes, won’t you? We’re

drinking shooters. Have one with us.”

Rita was already standing by the table. Toad allowed

himself to be persuaded.

A trayful of brimming shot glasses sat on

the small round table. As Toad watched, one of these

fools set the liquor in the glasses on fire

with a butane cigarette lighter.

“Okay, Commander, show us how it’s done!”

Toad looked at Rita, who was studying him with a

noncommittal raised eyebrow.

He sat down, one of the youngsters placed a glass

in front of him. The blue flame was burning

nicely.

It had been years since he did this. Was it

Rota, that time he got so blind drunk he passed out

while waiting for the taxi? Ah, but the navy was

politically correct now. Nobody got drunk

anymore.

Toad steadied himself, took a deep breath,

exhaled, and poured the burning brandy down his throat.

It seemed to burn all the way down. Some of the

liquid trickled from his lips, still on fire, but he

licked it up with his tongue. Was he burning? He

didn’t think so. He wiped his mouth with the back of his

hand just to make sure.

The members of his audience were gazing at him with

openmouthed astonishment. “Jesus, sir! We always

blow the fire out before we drink it.”

Toad didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You

goddamn pussiesea”…he said, and tossed off another

one.

“Our anniversary, and you’re drunk!”

Toad Tarkington felt like he had been hit by a

large truck, an eighteen wheeler, at least. He

turned in the bathroom door and looked carefully

at his spouse. He squinted to make his eyes

focus better.

“I am

not

drunk! A bit tipsy, I will grant you that. But

not drunk.”…He swelled his chest and tried to look

sober. “Those puppies, thinking they could drink an

old dog like me under the table.”…He snorted his

derision. “”We blow the fire out before we

drink.” Ha, ha, and ha!”

Rita was sooo mad! “Oh, you”

“Excuse me.”…Toad held up a finger. “Just a

minute or two, and we will continue this discussion

until you have said everything that needs to be said. There is

undoubtedly a lot of it and I am sure it will

take a while. Just one little minute.” He closed

the bathroom door and retched into the commode. Then he

swabbed his forehead with a wet washcloth.

He felt better. He stared at himself in the

mirror.

You look like hell, you damned fool.

He took a long drink of water, swabbed

his face with a towel, then opened the door, and said,

“Okay, you were saying?”

She wasn’t there. The room was empty.

Even her bag was gone.

He lay down in the bed. Oh, that felt gooood.

Maybe he should just lie here for a few minutes

until she cooled off and he sobered up

completely, then he would find her and apologize.

The room was whirling around, but whein he rolled on his

side it steadied out somewhat and he drifted right off.

Jake Grafton was alone at a table in the corner

of the O Club dining room when Rita Moravia

saw him and came over. He stood while she seated

herself. “You’re by yourself? Where’s Toad?”

“Sleeping it off. He was in the bar with your young studs

and had four drinks. Four! He’s whacked.”

Jake Grafton chuckled. “I don’t think

I’ve seen him drink more than an occasional beer

or glass of wine with dinner in years.”

“He doesn’tea”…she said. “Poor guy can’t handle

it anymore.”

“Heck of an anniversary celebrationea”…Jake