Quarles’s lips worked silently a moment. “This is rather short notice—”
“I have ADC Pickett’s authorization,” Pendergast went on. “This won’t be a shoestring operation: think of it more as a junket. I’ll make sure you fly first class, stay in the hotels of your choice, have a generous expense account. Discovering the manufacturer of these shoes could be crucial in solving the case.”
Quarles did not reply. But his eyes betrayed what he was imagining: a promotion and dramatic leap up the GS pay scale.
“I’ll need to go back to Huntsville,” Quarles said. “Pack a few things.”
“Of course. Come back here — shall we say this time tomorrow? — and we’ll discuss the operating parameters of your investigation. And then we’ll get you on a plane from Miami. Until then, thank you once again for your invaluable — and ongoing — aid.” With this, Pendergast got up and walked toward the door. When he reached it, he turned. “And, Mr. Quarles?”
Quarles, who was gathering up the evidence bags, turned toward him. “Yes?”
“Remember to pack your, ah, boxers.”
15
Commander Baugh stood on the bridge of the USCGC Chickering, staring at the hazy northern coast of Cuba through a pair of binoculars. The officer at the con had brought the cutter’s speed down to four knots, cruising just outside the twelve-mile limit, parallel to the low shoreline.
“Mr. Peterman, throttle down to two knots,” Baugh said. “Maintain the same heading.”
Baugh could feel the diesel engines slackening slightly, more a change in vibration than an actual sound. The handheld binoculars were no damn good. He laid them down and moved to the navigation bridge station, where the XO stood before an array of electronic charts, transceivers, and radar screens.
“Mr. Rama, I’d like to take a look at the prison through the electronic telescope.”
“Aye, sir.”
The XO busied himself with the controls and an image of the shore sprang into view on a screen. It was a muggy day and the image was blurry, wavering in the heat. A gigantic gray prison sprawled along the shore, off the port side of the cutter. El Duende. The entrance to Mariel Bay lay a little farther on, where fishing boats could be seen coming and going, along with a small Cuban Navy warship, entering the mouth of the bay and disappearing around the point of land.
Baugh peered at the image. There was something happening on the shore in front of the prison — a group of men were clearly occupied. Inmates, it seemed, at least judging from the universal orange uniforms. And guards in green. But it was all a blur in the hazy afternoon light, the images of the people merging and blending with each other like ghosts.
“Mr. Rama, can you sharpen the image?”
“Yes, sir. I’m working on it.”
The image jumped around a little bit. Whatever this group of men were doing, it didn’t look ordinary. There were a bunch of people, prisoners surrounded by guards in a tight group.
“Jesus, Mr. Rama, did you see that?” Baugh couldn’t believe what he had just seen. Or was it his imagination?
“I did, sir.”
“Play it back in slo-mo. On screen two.”
The recording jumped back a minute and then crawled forward on a second screen.
“There! Stop it!”
Good God, it looked like a decapitation. But it couldn’t be — could it? “Mr. Rama, can you tell me what you think is going on?”
“Sir, I’m not sure. It looked... violent.”
“A decapitation, maybe? Play it again.”
They went through it, frame by frame. The men were moving about, fast. A man seemed to be brought up to a blurry object or wall — and then, with a jerking motion, his head appeared to separate from his shoulders, even as a man near him swung his arm around. It was too blurry to see what kind of weapon the second man might be holding — everything was still shimmering and hazy — but Baugh saw the head separate from the body and tumble to the ground: that much at least was clear.
“It could be a decapitation, sir.”
“You saw the head come off, right?”
“I believe so, sir. A little hard to tell.”
Baugh felt his blood pounding. What the hell was going on? The Cubans were long known for torture. But decapitations... that was more like ISIS. Could this be some sort of terrorist alliance, right here, ninety miles from the U.S.? They’d better get some serious IMINT on this, satellite and whatever. Christ almighty, it could be another Cuban Missile Crisis.
Baugh took a deep breath. “Is there anything you can do to get a better image?”
“I am doing everything possible, sir.”
Rama worked the controls and called in another officer. The image continued to focus and blur, jiggle, zoom in and out — but nothing made it better. The haze and heat shimmer overwhelmed the image. They had to get closer.
“Double the watch,” Baugh ordered. “I want OS Atcitty up here on the double, along with First Lieutenant Darby.”
The orders were given.
“Mr. Rama, turn off AIS and all transponders. Initiate radio silence.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Okay, now paint ’em with hi-def radar.”
There was a hesitation. “Sir, that may be construed as provocative,” said the XO.
“Carry out the order.”
The high-definition radar showed nothing more than a green smudge on the beach, worse than the visual. They were still too far away, and the heat waves were throwing back return. There was no immediate response.
Atcitty arrived on the bridge and gave the CO a smart salute. A moment later Darby, Baugh’s chief of staff and overall right hand, followed.
“Look at this, Mr. Darby.”
Darby, leaning his plump form forward, stared at the screen where the activity was taking place.
“What are they doing?” he asked.
“You tell me.”
“There’s a big crowd, it looks like. Bunched up. Moving around. Prisoners in orange, guards in dark green. But it’s just too blurry. I can hardly make out individual people.”
“Could it be... an execution ground?”
Darby stared. “Could be, sir. Or maybe a riot. I mean, it looks like they’re fighting.”
Baugh turned to the helmsman. “Mr. Peterman, rudder ten degrees to port, maintain present speed.”
“Sir, our turning radius will take us inside the territorial limit.”
“Make it so, Mr. Peterman.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
There was a silence on the bridge. Baugh turned to the XO, who was staring at him. Baugh flashed him a reassuring smile. “Don’t look so alarmed, Mr. Rama. We painted them with radar. No response. Someone’s asleep at the helm. They won’t even notice.”
“Aye, sir.”
The ten-degree rudder would give them a turn of two-mile radius, bring them within eight miles of shore. Baugh turned to the operation specialist. “Ms. Atcitty, prepare to launch a surveillance drone at closest approach. Mr. Peterman, continue turning the ship through two hundred and seventy degrees. When a heading of zero-zero-zero is achieved, accelerate to forty knots and exit Cuban waters.”
More shocked silence.
“I gave an order!”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Baugh felt the cutter begin to turn. He understood the hesitation of his staff, but he also knew they didn’t have his experience. There were times when standard procedures didn’t apply; when unusual, even heroic, measures had to be taken. Something terrible was happening on the shore in front of the prison, and by sheer chance they had hit right on it. It might well be part of a complicated military strategy, of which the feet were an early component. If so, Washington had to be informed. They couldn’t wait for sat imagery; that might take hours, if not days. He needed to document this right now. The cutter was fast — damn fast — and if the Cubans gave chase, she could outrun almost any tin-can Cuban warship.