The Cuban Incident Page 2

  Morrison sighed heavily as the medics checked his vitals. His aide handed Leroux the bottle of water and he passed it to Morrison, who drank it eagerly. Leroux passed off the empty bottle to her and she disappeared.

  “How is he?”

  One of the medics glanced over her shoulder at him. “Looks like he’s suffering from exhaustion and dehydration. After what he’s been through, he needs to keep hydrated.” She turned to Morrison. “How much water have you had to drink today, sir?”

  “Nothing. That bottle was from yesterday.”

  She frowned. “You have to do much better than that, sir. Keep yourself hydrated and get lots of rest. You spent almost three weeks in bed. It’s going to take time to recover from that. I think you should come to the infirmary with us, just so we can have you properly checked over and have a doctor look at you.”

  Morrison batted her hand away. “Nonsense, I feel fine now.” Leroux opened his mouth to protest when Morrison cut him off with a finger. “But you’re right. I have been pushing myself too hard. I’m going to go home. If anyone needs me, they know how to reach me.” He rose, the medics supporting him just in case. He turned to Leroux. “I trust I can count on you for what we discussed?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Then do whatever it takes. I trust your judgment.”

  “It may involve boots on the ground.”

  “Everybody is expecting that. Delta is already on standby. Pull whoever you need. You have my authorization to do whatever it takes, short of starting a war.”

  “If I do what I think may need to be done, we might just come close to that.”

  Morrison grunted. “Close is fine. Just don’t take us all the way there.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Now, get out of here so I can preserve some of my dignity.”

  Leroux smiled. “Of course, sir.” He left the room as Morrison’s aide rushed back in with a freshly filled bottle of water. Leroux stopped her. “Once you give him that, call his wife. Tell her what’s happened and that he needs to get his rest.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Leroux sent a message to Sonya Tong, his second-in-command.

  Get us an OC and assemble the team. We have a high-priority case.

  His phone vibrated a moment later.

  Copy that. There in 20.

  “What time is it?” he muttered to himself. He checked his watch and frowned. It was an hour before his team was due to arrive, and he had already been here an hour. His girlfriend, Sherrie White, was off on an op and so was his best friend, Dylan Kane. He had no reason to be home, and after tossing and turning for hours, had given up and come in. He never minded working. He loved his job, though he realized not everyone was as committed and available as he was. He hated bringing in people at unusual hours who had families and loved ones, but lives were at stake, and the Chief was right—there was no way they could let this technology fall into the hands of the Cuban Communist regime.

  A regime so desperate for money, it wouldn’t hesitate to sell what it acquired to America’s enemies.

  And with the Chief out of commission, it was up to him to stop them.

  3 |

  Unknown Location

  Tosh groaned, his entire body racked with pain. His eyes fluttered open and he found himself in pitch darkness. It took him a moment to remember what had happened, and when he did, his heart raced.

  “Mowery! You okay?”

  There was no reply. He struggled to get up, and when he braced himself, his left arm buckled and he screamed in agony. It was broken. He eased back down on the deck, then performed a self-assessment. His arm was broken and his ribs were tender. He took a deep breath and gasped, the pain overwhelming, his breathing labored.

  He needed immediate medical attention.

  He listened, but heard nothing beyond his own wheezing, though with the door to the highly classified testing center closed, he wouldn’t expect to hear anything. It was then that he noticed the violent rocking of the boat was gone. It was now completely still, which didn’t make sense. Even on a calm sea there would be gentle movement.

  His eyes shot wide as he realized what had happened.

  We’re shipwrecked.

  He had no idea how long he’d been passed out, but the closest landmass when he had hit his head was Cuba, the only country in the entire hemisphere they wouldn’t want to be shipwrecked on the shores of, beyond perhaps Venezuela, and there was no way he had been out that long. But if they were indeed on the shores of Cuba or some other landmass, he might not be the only one alive.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out his cellphone, and activated the flashlight feature. He played it around the room, the beam coming to rest on Mowery’s crumpled body. He dragged himself toward his friend, clutching his left arm to his side, his chest protesting with each jerking motion. He collapsed beside Mowery, exhausted, and struggled to take shallow breaths rather than the deep gasps his body demanded. His searing lungs finally settled, he reached over and gave Mowery a shake.

  “Hey, buddy, you still with us?”

  But there was no reply. He rolled his friend onto his back, then shined the light on Mowery’s face. His mouth filled with bile and he quickly twisted his wrist, redirecting the light so he couldn’t see the horror revealed—Mowery’s twisted and broken neck. The man was dead. The only comfort he could take from the discovery was the fact it had been instantaneous, and his friend hadn’t suffered.

  He closed his eyes and took a brief moment to mourn the loss, then used the light to re-orient himself. He had to get out of this room. Dragging himself had been unbearably painful, and the door was on the other side of the room. There was no way he could manage that again, and besides, once he was past the door, it was a long way off the boat. He rolled to his knees, the pain in his chest overwhelming. He reached up and grabbed the railing that went around most of the room. He gripped it with his right hand then took as deep a breath as he could manage before hauling himself to his feet.

  He roared in agony, his scream providing little relief, merely expending the valuable oxygen he needed for the effort. But it was worth it. He steadied himself against the console brimming with top-secret equipment that it was his duty to make certain didn’t fall into hostile hands. Yet there was no way he could fulfill that duty, not in his current condition, though perhaps there were others still alive who could.

  He stumbled over to the door, the security panel dark. He smacked it and it briefly flickered to life. He entered his code and the panel beeped. He pushed against the door and it opened after some effort. A rush of fresh air greeted him along with dim emergency lighting, the batteries powering it slowly fading.

  He leaned against the bulkhead, steadying his breathing, only then realizing how stale the air in the control room had been without its purifiers running. He checked both ends of the corridor and saw no one, though the faint sounds of waves lapping on a shore and seagulls squawking in the distance had replaced the deafening silence of the testing center.

  He debated what to do. There were only six of them on board. Mowery was dead, and the last time he was on the bridge, two were there, and two were in the engine compartment. In his condition, there was no way he’d be able to climb the ladder to the bridge, but if he went out the stern of the boat, he could get on the deck and call to them. His decision made, he pushed along the bulkhead toward the far end of the corridor, then opened the rear hatch, pushing it aside.

  Sunlight poured in, the humid salt air revitalizing, if only slightly. He climbed through the opening and out onto the tilted rear deck. He had a clear view of the ocean, marred only by the heavy clouds in the distance from the edge of the hurricane responsible for all this. He shuffled forward, turning to face the rest of the boat, then cursed as his assumption proved correct.

  They had washed ashore.

  From what he could observe, the boat seemed in good condition, though he had no way of knowing how the hull had fared. He dragged hi
mself toward the open access door to the engine compartment and peered inside. Several feet of water had settled at the bottom, but Jake and Kathryn were no longer there. He headed for the bridge, hauling himself by the railing, then finally gave up, exhausted. He leaned against the rail, gasping for oxygen, his ribs in agony. Finally, he managed to regain control. “Is anyone up there?”

  There was no reply.

  “Captain Galitz! Are you guys okay?”

  There was still no reply. He eyed the vertical ladder leading up to the bridge. There was no way he could climb it, not in his condition, yet he had to know. Several of the windows were smashed, and he was certain the boat had capsized, but he had found no evidence of significant flooding. The vessel was designed to right itself, and appeared to have done just that, though how many times they had flipped, and how long they had been violently tossed around while he was unconscious, he had no idea. Without engines, they would have been at the mercy of the sea all night. He had to hope they were merely injured like him, and not dead like Mowery.

  He eyed the impossible bridge. Yesterday, he could yank himself up the ladder with his feet never touching a rung. Today, it might as well be the Empire State building.

  Yet he had to know.

  He shuffled from the railing and reached up, grabbing a rung with his good hand. He stepped up with his right foot then his left. He took another step up, pushing as much as he could with his legs rather than pulling, all in an attempt to avoid the strain on his broken ribs. But it wasn’t easy going. The boat was tipped hard to starboard, and attempting to hold on to the ladder with his right hand was challenging while gravity pulled his body weight to the right.

  He pushed up another rung then let go with his right hand and jerked it up, grabbing on to the next rung. He heard something clatter and he cursed as his cellphone that had slipped out of his pocket from his precarious angle, skidded across the deck and over the side into the water below. A jolt of pain surged through his body and his strength waned. His head spun and his grip slowly loosened as he slipped off, slamming onto the deck, his head smacking once again against a hard surface, blissfully freeing him from his agony and the guilt that would have surely overwhelmed him at failing to fulfill his duty to his friends, his crewmates, and his country.

  4 |

  Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia

  Leroux sat at his station located in the middle of the state-of-the-art Operations Center. Hunched over his keyboard, his fingers flew furiously as he plowed through the intercepted communiqués from the region and from Cuba itself. Three monitors in front of him displayed different sets of data, his expert eye flitting between all three, the massive displays that wrapped around the front of the room ignored. He leaned back and closed his burning eyes. He had worked late last night and had come in early this morning. He was already exhausted.

  His hope, of course, was that the lost boat merely had a communications failure due to the storm, and they would either be found in friendly waters, or would save themselves by steaming into Miami later today. In fact, they might already have docked at a safe port, and word simply hadn’t reached him yet. But for now, he had to operate under the assumption that a boat with six Americans on board, serving their country, along with tens of millions of dollars of bleeding-edge equipment that couldn’t fall into enemy hands, was lost near a hostile territory.

  He opened his eyes and stared about the empty room, none of his team having arrived yet, though all had confirmed they were on their way. There was enough room for a couple of dozen analysts, each with powerful workstations that connected them to every database available to mankind. He breathed in the purified air, the hum of the HVAC system all too familiar, its positive pressure system preventing any outside contaminants from getting in, its filters keeping the air clean. The fans that controlled the temperature, efficiently dealing with the heat radiated by all the equipment, droned in the background, mixed with the white noise of countless computer fans.

  It was soothing.

  He sighed at the realization he spent more time in this hermetically sealed environment than his own home. He took a drink of water from his oversized insulated mug, then leaned back and closed his eyes once again. His shoulders ached. He hung his head low, shifting his head from side to side as he struggled to work out the kinks, but it was no use. He needed his neck rubbed either by woman or machine. He was uncomfortable enough with physical contact that the thought of a man he didn’t know giving him a rub down had no appeal, nor did he think it would be effective as he’d be so tense through the entire experience.

  Sherrie was the only one who had ever given him a massage, and that was only after he had become completely comfortable with her. When he was younger, he had been at a mall and his mother had insisted he try a $10 massage on offer, where all you had to do was sit in a chair and lean forward. The masseuse was beautiful, but he had only lasted two minutes, the entire experience freaking him out. His mother had never asked him to try anything like that again. Her intentions were good. She wanted him to get over his discomfort of other people touching him, no doubt worried he would have trouble in the relationship department.

  Fortunately, Sherrie had worked her magic in that department, and he was comfortable with her, relishing her touch, even craving it as he did now. The door hissed open with a beep. As he reached behind with one hand and squeezed his neck, Sonya Tong, his most senior analyst, entered the room smiling at him.

  “Hey, Chris. All alone?”

  He nodded. “Yup, you’re the first to make it in.”

  She dropped her bag at her station immediately to his left and stood staring at him, frowning with her hands on her hips. “You never left here, did you?”

  He shook his head, still attempting to give himself a massage. “No, I went home for a few hours. I got caught up in admin stuff from our last op, and Sherrie is away, so, you know. I wasn’t expecting an emergency op though.”

  “Neck bothering you?”

  He grunted. “Back and shoulders. I need to work on my posture.”

  She chuckled. “Let me.”

  He was about to protest as she stepped behind him, but before he had a chance, her hands squeezed the back of his neck then shoulders, and instead of flinching from the unfamiliar contact, he groaned in pleasure as her thumbs kneaded his neck muscles, and her fingers and palms worked his shoulders. Rather than stop her, he instead gave in. It was inappropriate, but they were alone and they were friends. He was fully aware she had inappropriate feelings for him, though that was some time ago, and he had to assume she had put that behind her.

  What surprised him was how comfortable he felt in her hands, and he was proud of the progress he had made. Handshakes, fist bumps, high fives, thumping hugs hadn’t been much of a problem. It was the extended contact, like right now, that had always given him the heebie-jeebies. As Tong continued her ministrations, all the tension of the day left him, and as his eyes remained closed, he lost himself in the moment, wondering what his life would be like if Tong had asked him out before he had ever met Sherrie. She was a wonderful woman, and any man would be lucky to have her, including himself. But he found it hard to imagine loving anyone as much as he loved Sherrie.

  The door hissed and her hands darted away as she took two steps back and he sat straight in his chair. “Thanks for that,” he said as Randy Child, their wunderkind analyst, entered the room. Tong flashed him a smile then returned to her station, and as she sat, she sighed heavily. In that moment, he realized she still had feelings for him, and wondered if she would be better off transferred to another group. He couldn’t imagine not working with her. She was the best analyst on his team, but if working in close proximity to him was too hard, he didn’t want her suffering. He regarded her for a moment out of the corner of his eye, then gave himself a mental kick to the head.

  Get over yourself. If she’s uncomfortable, she can request a transfer. But if you get involved proactively, then she’s going
to know you know, and she’ll be embarrassed.

  “Well?”

  Leroux flinched, having not heard anything Child had been saying while lost in his reverie. He turned in his chair to face Child’s station. “Sorry, what was that?”

  “I said, ‘Why are we here?’” Child eyed him. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Leroux grunted. “Sorry, just tired.” He caught a sliver of a smile on Tong’s face as she stared at her workstation. “I’ll give everyone a full briefing once the team is here, but check your inbox. I’ve sent you the briefing notes. Read those and get yourself up to speed. Sonya, once you’ve read the notes, I’ll have you take over monitoring the intercepts. We’re looking for any suggestion the Cubans or anyone else in the area have found a missing boat or recovered survivors in the water, anything. Once you’ve read my email, that’ll make a lot more sense to you.”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  The door hissed and beeped again, two more of his team entering, forcing him to push aside any confusing feelings he might be having over his interaction with Tong, and get to work. A sense of guilt set in, and he sighed. He couldn’t let that happen again. Too many people could get hurt. He rolled his shoulders, second-guessing his decision, for all his tightened muscles were now relaxed, and he felt better than he had in days. It might be time to let a professional have a go.

  Mom would be so proud.

  5 |

  Romero Farm Outside Dimas, Pinar del Rio, Cuba

  Maricela Romero stood on her front porch, surveying the farm for any damage from last night’s storm. They had caught the edge of the hurricane, so had been soaked with a healthy dowsing of rain whipped up by some ferocious winds. From this distance, it would have barely registered as a tropical storm, though even those could damage a farm. Her expert eye roamed every square inch from her vantage point, finding the crops intact and only a few things out of place.