“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.