“I’m afraid we don’t have any markers in the wake of the dead zones,” Yaeger said. “I checked the status of those closest, but they didn’t reveal anything unusual.”
“We’ll need to get some resources on-site,” Pitt said. “How about our research vessels?”
“The closest vessel of size would be the Sargasso Sea.” Yaeger converted the screen to show the fleet of NUMA-deployed research ships.
“She’s in Key West, supporting an Underwater Technology project that Al Giordino is leading,” Gunn said. “Do you want me to call him and reassign the ship to investigate?”
Yaeger rolled his eyes. “Al will love that.”
Pitt stared at the map. “No, that won’t be necessary.”
Loren saw the look in her husband’s eyes and knew exactly what he was thinking.
“Oh, no,” she grimaced, while shaking her head. “Not the lure of the deep again.”
Pitt could only gaze at his wife and smile.
3
The Revolution Day party wound down early. It had been sixty-three years since Fidel Castro and a band of rebels attacked an Army barracks in Santiago, setting off the eventual overthrow of Cuban leader Fulgencio Batista. These days, there seemed little worth celebrating. The economy was still in tatters, food was in short supply, and the technological leaps the rest of the world enjoyed seemed to be passing the country by. On top of that, rumors were rampant, yet again, that El Comandante was near his last breath.
Alphonse Ortiz drained the mojito, his sixth of the night, and weaved his way toward the door of the stylishly furnished apartment.
“Leaving so soon?” the party’s hostess asked, apprehending him at the door. The wife of the Agriculture Minister, she was a buxom woman buried under a mask of heavy makeup.
“I must be fresh for a speech tomorrow at Martí Airport, recognizing its recent expansion. Is Escobar about?”
“Over peddling influence with the Trade Minister.” She nodded at her husband across the room.
“Please give him my regards. It was a splendid party.”
The woman smiled at the false compliment. “We’re happy you could join us. Good luck with your speech tomorrow.”
Ortiz, a highly regarded Cuban vice president on the powerful Council of State, gave a wobbly bow and escaped out the door. Five hours trapped conversing with half the Cuban cabinet had left him hungering for fresh air. Easing himself down three flights of stairs, he crossed an austere lobby and stepped onto the street. A blast of warm air greeted him, with the sounds of revelers celebrating the national holiday.
Ortiz stepped across the crumbling sidewalk and waved at a parked black sedan. Its headlights popped on and the Chinese-made Geely zipped up to the curb. Ortiz opened the rear door and collapsed into the backseat.
“Take me home, Roberto,” he said to the wrinkled man at the wheel.
“Did you enjoy the party?”
“About as much as I savor a migraine. Stupid fools just want to relive the past. Nobody in our government bothers thinking about tomorrow.”
“I think the president does. He likes your thinking. One day, he puts you in charge.”
It was a possibility, Ortiz knew. There was a short list of possible successors waiting for Raúl Castro to retire in 2018, and he knew his name was on it. That was the only reason he had attended the Revolution Day party and made nice with the other cabinet ministers. When it came to politics, you could never have too many allies.
“One day, I’ll be in charge of a rocking chair,” he mused to his driver. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
Roberto grinned as he pulled into traffic and threaded his way out of downtown Havana. A moment later, a rugged six-ton Kamaz military truck stopped near the front of the apartment building. A soldier in olive drab fatigues emerged from the shadows of an adjacent doorway and climbed into the truck.
He nodded toward the departing black sedan. “The target is live.”
The driver stepped on the gas, cutting off a motorcyclist as he veered down the street. A block ahead, the Geely skirted past the Museo Napoleónico before turning onto Avenue La Rampa and driving across the western suburbs. While many high-ranking government officials lived in luxury city apartments, Ortiz maintained his residence in a modest hilltop home outside Havana that overlooked the sea.
The traffic and city lights gradually fell away as the Geely motored through an agricultural area of cooperative tobacco and cassava farms. The military truck, having trailed through the city at a discreet distance, closed the gap and rode up tight on the sedan’s bumper.
Roberto, who had worked as a chauffeur for sixty of his seventy-five years, didn’t flinch. The unlit road was a haven for stray dogs and goats, and he wasn’t going to risk a collision on account of an anxious tailgater.
The truck hung tight for a mile until the road curved up a sweeping hillside. With a noisy downshift, the truck drifted into the opposing lane and charged alongside the Geely.
Roberto glanced out his window and noted a star-shaped emblem on the door. A Revolutionary Army vehicle.
The truck surged slightly ahead, then veered sharply into the Geely’s lane, smacking into the sedan’s front fender.
Had Roberto possessed the reflexes of a younger man, he might have braked hard and quick enough to slip back with minimal damage. But he was a touch too late, allowing the heavy truck to shove the car across the road.
The sedan slammed into a rusty side rail, producing a trail of sparks.
The truck showed no mercy, pinning the Geely against the steel barrier in hope of propelling it over or through the rail, then down the hillside. But as the vehicles exited the curve, the side rail came to an end, replaced by a series of squat concrete pillars. The sedan slid past the side rail and smashed head-on into the first concrete post.
The car struck with a loud clap that echoed across the landscape. On the opposite hill, a young ranch hand was startled awake by the crash. Sitting upright in an open lean-to he shared with a dozen goats, he peered toward the road beyond. An Army truck was skidding to a halt just past a mangled car. One of the car’s headlights still shone, illuminating the truck a few yards ahead. The boy grabbed his sandals to go lend help, then stopped and watched.
A man in fatigues emerged from the truck. The soldier glanced around as if ensuring no one was watching, then strode toward the car, a flashlight in one hand and a dark object in the other.
Inside the car, Ortiz groaned from the pain of a separated shoulder and a broken nose, having been flung into the headrest. He gathered his senses as warm blood flowed down his chin. “Roberto?”
The driver sat motionless, slumped over the wheel. Roberto’s neck had snapped, killing him instantly, after he had rocketed into the windshield. The Chinese export car had no air bags.
As reality sank in, Ortiz sat up and saw the Army truck through the shattered windshield. He wiped his bloodied face and watched as the soldier approached, carrying a dark object.
“Help me. I think my arm is broken,” he said as the soldier pried open the passenger door.
The soldier gave him a cold gaze and Ortiz realized he was not there to offer aid. Sitting helpless, he watched as the soldier raised his arm and swung at him with the object. An instant before it crushed his skull, the minister recognized it as an ordinary tire iron.