Havana Storm Page 21

  A front window had been jimmied open, providing the burglar entry. Yet little in the study had been disturbed. Valuable antiques and ship artifacts were left untouched, as was his collection of rare books. Everything was in its place, except for the leather-bound copy of Moby-Dick that had been hurled at him.

  He checked his desk drawers, but they had not been touched. As he examined the desktop, he realized there was something missing—his file on Ellsworth Boyd and the sinking of the Maine.

  He sat down and was about to call the police when Admiral Semmes jumped in his lap.

  “Well, Admiral, it would seem the Pitts have stirred up a bit of trouble with the Maine and the Aztec artifact. It’s a good thing I had already digested the complete file.”

  The cat poked his head at Perlmutter’s hand and he obliged by stroking the cat’s back.

  “I will say our tag team wrestling left a bit to be desired. But your early-warning system was superb. It’s extra milk for you in the morning, my good friend.”

  Admiral Semmes looked at him and purred.

  51

  Pitt spied a flurry of activity around the dockside facility. The ore barge had been emptied of its original cargo and was now being loaded with small wooden crates and large bins filled with heavy canvas sacks.

  He stopped in the shadows and watched a team of men in a guarded storage pen load the sacks, which resembled dry concrete mix. Red signs marked Explosivos hung nearby. The sacks likely contained ANFO, or ammonium nitrate/fuel oil, a common industrial bulk explosive, while the small crates contained TNT. The explosives would soon be on their way to the Sea Raker for blasting open the thermal vents.

  Pitt made his way past the pen to the two-story building. He saw that the lower level was used for operations support. An equipment locker and a machine shop faced the water on the near side. At the far end was an open garage with a utility cart parked out front. The upper level looked to be barracks for the soldiers—a likely holding place for Summer.

  He spotted a side stairway, crept to its base, and started climbing.

  When he was halfway up, the door to the second level burst open and a soldier rushed out with a toolbox. There was little Pitt could do, so he simply lowered his head and picked up his pace. The soldier stormed past him without a glance.

  At the top landing, Pitt took a deep breath and stepped inside. A dim corridor stretched before him, with multiple rooms on either side. All the doors were open except for one at the far end. Opposite the room, two soldiers leaned against the wall, smoking cigarettes.

  Pitt walked toward them, trying to appear casual as he tightened his grip on the assault rifle slung over his shoulder.

  Noting his approach, one of the soldiers spoke rapidly to his companion, then darted out an opposite exit, fearful he was about to be caught goldbricking. The other soldier extinguished his cigarette and stood at attention.

  Pitt approached quickly, asking from a distance, “Cigarillo?”

  The soldier reached into his pocket before realizing something was amiss. The approaching man was taller than any soldier he knew, his uniform was several sizes too short, and his craggy face was too mature for his rank.

  Rather than extending a hand for the cigarette, the stranger jammed his rifle into the soldier’s chest. Before he had a chance to react, Pitt commanded him, “Drop your weapon.”

  The guard nodded and let his rifle slip to the floor. Pitt nudged him toward the door and told him to open it. The door was unlocked. The guard twisted the knob and flung it open. Summer was seated on a bunk inside, visibly working to free her bound wrists. She froze, then did a double take as Pitt entered with the guard ahead of him.

  She gave him a tired smile. “You join the Revolutionary Armed Forces?”

  “The Boy Scouts wouldn’t have me.”

  Keeping his gun leveled on the guard, Pitt handed Summer his penknife. “You okay?” He noted the light cut on her cheek.

  She nodded. “Received some idle threats from our host but was otherwise stuck here counting flies all day.”

  “I think you’ll need his cap and jacket.” Pitt motioned toward the guard.

  Summer appropriated his attire. “What do we do with him?”

  “Tie him up. You can use those bedsheets, but start with this.” Pitt handed her the shoulder strap off his rifle.

  She wrapped the man’s wrists together behind his back, then stripped the sheets off the bed. She secured one around his elbows, then shoved him on the bed and tied his ankles together with the other. She finished the job by gagging him with a pillowcase.

  “You did that very well,” Pitt said.

  “I’ve had a bit of experience on the other end lately.”

  Summer slipped on the guard’s jacket and hat. Before they exited the room, Pitt retrieved the man’s weapon from the floor and handed it to his daughter.

  “I’ve never fired one of these.”

  “You won’t need to. Just act like you know how.”

  They exited the building by the rear stairwell and ducked behind a dumpster to reconnoiter the dock.

  “How do we get out of here?” she asked.

  “The tug.”

  Summer looked at her father and shook her head. “Why don’t we just sneak down the coast and find another boat? They’ll be all over us here.”

  “Because of the thermal vents. They’re loading explosives aboard the barge right now in preparation for blowing the next two vents. We can’t let that happen.”

  Summer had heard that firm tone in her father’s voice before. She knew there would be no changing his mind. And, rationally, he was right. If the Cubans blew up the thermal vents, it would cause an environmental catastrophe of untold proportions. They had to be stopped and there was no time to spare.

  She just wished the job could fall to someone else. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

  “Try to ignite the explosives on the dock—or on the barge. If we’re lucky, maybe we can sink the barge with it. During the confusion, we’ll slip out on the tug.”

  “And if we’re not lucky, we’ll be blown sky-high?”

  Pitt smiled and shook his head. “The explosive they’re loading, ANFO, has a low volatility. Getting it to blow requires a secondary detonation. The best we can hope to do is ignite it and hope it burns like crazy.”

  “‘Crazy’ is the operational word, all right.” She noticed her father’s calm demeanor and her fears fell away. “Okay, what can I do?”

  Pitt rapped his knuckles against the trash bin. “I need you to do a little dumpster diving while I round up some transportation. We could use an empty bottle or two, and perhaps a small open container. I’ll be right back.”

  Before she could answer, he rushed back to the barracks building and stepped to the front side. A short distance away, the storage garage was still open and the gas-powered utility cart parked in front. Pitt lingered near the side of the building as a truck loaded with explosives rumbled past on its way to the barge. Once it passed, he crept toward the open garage. Voices sounded from inside, where a pair of mechanics were overhauling a truck engine.

  Pitt ignored the men and approached the cart. Releasing its emergency brake, he pushed it past the open garage door. The cart rolled easily, and the mechanics didn’t notice the sound of crunching gravel under its tires. Pitt pushed it past the building and up to the dumpster.

  Summer’s head popped up from inside, a look of relief on her face when she saw that it was her father.

  “Any luck?” he asked.

  Summer nodded. “Three empty rum bottles, a coffee can, and a pair of rats that nearly gave me cardiac arrest.” She passed the containers to Pitt, then leaped out of the dumpster like an Olympic high jumper.

  Pitt held up the empty rum bottles. “They didn’t even leave us a last shot.”

  “I’d trade
a case of rum for a hot shower.” Summer wiped her hands on the borrowed fatigues.

  Pitt had Summer stand watch while he went to work. He opened the utility cart’s hood and located a rubber fuel line. Pulling it from the carburetor, he let the gas drain into the coffee can, then transferred it into the rum bottles, filling each half full. He reinstalled the fuel line, then sliced several lengths of cloth from his camouflage jacket. He stuffed these into the bottle tops, completing a trio of Molotov cocktails.

  “Truck coming,” Summer whispered.

  They ducked behind the cart as an empty truck rumbled to the pen for another load of explosives. Once it passed, Pitt stood and placed the bottles in the back of the cart.

  “The dock’s clear,” he said. “Let’s get down there before the truck comes back.”

  “How are we going to light the bottles?”

  “Get behind the wheel and hit the starter for a second when I tell you.”

  As Summer slid into the driver’s seat, Pitt gathered some dry leaves and sticks and placed them in the coffee can. A thin layer of gasoline sloshed at the bottom, ensuring fuel for the fire. Pitt picked up the can and carried it to the cart’s engine. He pulled a spark plug wire, dangled the end inside the coffee can, and motioned for Summer to turn the key.

  A blue spark spit from the cable end and ignited the fuel in the bottom of the can. Pitt jammed the wire back onto the plug and jumped into the passenger seat with his canned campfire. Summer restarted the cart and drove down a short hill to the dock.

  The barge was still tied up, with the tug astern. Summer drove onto the dock, thankful there were no soldiers nearby. Several men were working around a crane that was loading the barge with crated explosives. Others were positioned aboard the barge, securing the crates.

  “See if you can get us past the crane without stopping.” Pitt hid the coffee can and bottles at his feet.

  Keeping her head down, Summer maneuvered the cart past the stacked crates and around the crane. The soldiers were too busy loading the barge to pay any attention, save for the crane operator, who looked askance at Pitt’s ill-fitting uniform. When Summer had made it past two stacked crates of explosives, Pitt told her to pull over.

  Partially concealed by the crates, he grabbed a bottle and lit the rag with his coffee can fire. Stepping to the edge of the dock, he hurled it toward the center of the barge.

  The bottle shattered against the top of an open bin, sending a shower of flame over the top sack of ANFO.

  Pitt had barely hopped into the cart when he heard someone yell, “Hey!” Just in front of them, two armed soldiers appeared.

  “Go,” Pitt whispered.

  Summer floored the accelerator, aiming the utility cart at the two men. The first jumped clear but the second hesitated. Summer clipped him in the thigh, sending him reeling to the side.

  Pitt turned to see the first soldier regain his balance and raise his rifle. Quickly lighting the next rum bottle, he flung it to the ground in front of him. The glass exploded in a small fireball that engulfed the soldier’s legs. A short burst of gunfire riddled the back of the cart before the soldier dropped to the ground and rolled to douse the flames.

  “Where did they come from?” Pitt asked.

  “I think they were loafing on the other side of the crate. Tug’s just ahead.”

  Pitt lit the final Molotov cocktail and flung it at the last stack of crates on the dock, engulfing it in flames.

  Summer skidded to a stop in front of the tugboat and they both hopped out of the cart.

  “Release the stern line,” Pitt said, “then go to the wheelhouse and see if you can start her.”

  “What if someone’s aboard?”

  “They probably won’t be armed.” He patted the AK-47 under his arm.

  Pitt ran to free the bow and spring mooring lines, then jumped onto the tug’s narrow deck. He raced to the bow, where several towlines from the barge were wrapped around a trio of bollards. The lines had been drawn tight and Pitt worked feverishly to release them.

  Ahead of him on the barge, he heard the cries of men trying to douse the flames, while others ran to quell the dock fire. It would be short order before the two injured soldiers would alert the others of their presence. He was relieved to hear the tug’s diesel engine churn to life behind him.

  Freeing the last of the barge lines, he scrambled across the squat deck and dashed to the wheelhouse, clutching the AK-47. Bursting through an open side door, he stopped in his tracks.

  The wheelhouse was cramped and dim, but he could clearly see Molina standing with an arm locked around Summer’s neck and a pistol held to her temple.

  “Put down your weapon,” Molina said. “It is not time to leave just yet.”

  Behind him, he heard the sound of additional men charging from the dock and boarding the tug. Pitt could only look at his daughter in anguish as he slowly dropped his weapon to the deck.

  52

  Rudi, you’re here early.”

  Vice President James Sandecker burst into the foyer of his office in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building like a rabid hyena. A fitness fanatic, he was dressed in a black jogging suit and followed by two out-of-breath Secret Service agents in similar attire.

  “I wanted to catch you first thing.” Rudi Gunn was seated waiting on a sofa. “How was your morning run?”

  The worst-kept secret in Washington was that the Vice President took a three-mile run around the Mall at five-thirty every morning, much to the chagrin of his security detail.

  “A D.C. cab nearly T-boned one of my boys here, but otherwise it’s a glorious morning to be pounding the pavement.”

  Sandecker opened the door to his office and waved Gunn in as the two agents waited outside for plainclothes replacements. The Vice President took his place behind a massive desk built from the timbers of a Confederate blockade runner. A retired admiral, Sandecker had been the founding head of NUMA, and Gunn had been one of the first he had hired. He still considered NUMA his baby, and kept close relations with Gunn and Pitt. “What brings you here so early?”

  “It’s the Sargasso Sea. She was operating in the Florida Straits, about thirty miles northeast of Havana. Voice and data links have now been nonresponsive for more than twenty-four hours.”

  “Any distress calls or emergency beacons?”

  “No, sir.”

  “She’s captained by Malcomb Smith, isn’t she?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “Pitt and Giordino are also aboard.”

  Sandecker pulled out a thick cigar, his lone vice, and lit it up. “What were they doing off of Cuba? You weren’t helping the CIA, were you?”

  “No, nothing like that. They were tracking a series of toxic mercury plumes that have cropped up in the Caribbean.” Gunn explained the sites they’d surveyed off the southern coast of Cuba. “Pitt believes the mercury plumes are the result of an underwater mining operation targeting hydrothermal vents. We’ve traced seismic events to each of the areas consistent with the signature of land mining explosions.”

  “Underwater blasting?”

  “That’s what we think. Pitt was tracking some activity at a site in the Florida Straits when we lost contact.”

  “Who’s responsible for the mining?” Sandecker asked.

  “We don’t know yet, but we suspect Cuban involvement.”

  “Have you searched for the ship?”

  Gunn nodded and pulled a photo from an attaché case. “Satellite imagery from six hours ago indicates she’s still afloat.”

  Sandecker looked at the dark image, which revealed two light smudges near its center. “Can’t tell much at night,” he remarked.

  Gunn pulled out a color infrared image, which showed two oval bands of red in a sea of blue. “We’re confident that is the Sargasso Sea, alo
ngside a ship we believe is called the Sea Raker. We backtracked through satellite images from the prior week, which confirmed the Sargasso Sea’s movements.”

  “So who owns this Sea Raker?”

  “A Canadian company called Bruin Mining and Exploration,” Gunn said. “The ship is operating under lease to a Panamanian-registered entity with no real history. A rep from Bruin said he thought the ship was involved in a mining project off the west coast of Nicaragua but couldn’t confirm where the ship was currently located.”

  “Has anybody tried contacting this Sea Raker?”

  Gunn nodded. “Yes. The Coast Guard cutter Knight Island out of Key West was dispatched to the area. They radioed the Sea Raker but received no response.”

  “So you think this Sea Raker may have boarded the Sargasso Sea?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “Why didn’t the Coast Guard sail up alongside and see for themselves?”

  “At last check, both vessels are sitting five miles inside Cuba’s territorial waters. The Knight Island pushed the envelope and crossed the line to within sight of both vessels but then was challenged by a Cuban Navy corvette.”

  Sandecker blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling. “So we need to put the hammer down on the Cuban government.”

  “It’s a presumed act of piracy.”

  “If you assume the Sea Raker is in fact controlled by the Cubans. And if you assume that Pitt wasn’t dallying in their territorial waters to begin with.” They both knew Pitt’s tendency to bend the rules if a situation called for it.

  “The tracking data suggests they were operating outside the territorial limit when contact was lost. At this point, it doesn’t matter. We need to go get them.”

  Sandecker rolled the cigar between his fingers, then placed it in an ashtray. He looked at Gunn with troubled eyes. “I’m sorry, Rudi, but there’s nothing we can do.”

  Gunn recoiled from his chair. He knew Sandecker regarded Pitt like a son. “What do you mean, there’s nothing we can do?”