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 exposed vents with sediment from the seafloor. This would minimize, if not altogether extinguish, the release of mercury.”