Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)
Todd Moss
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Ghosts of Havana is entirely a work of fiction, but the story draws on true historical episodes and was partly inspired by my real-life experiences working inside the United States government. When I first began conceiving of a thriller about the U.S. and Cuba, I assumed that, after more than half a century of frozen relations, there was little prospect for change. Boy, was I wrong. In December 2014, the White House surprised the world by announcing steps toward normalization with Havana, proving yet again that even the most intractable foreign policy logjams can break at any time. And that what comes next is always unpredictable.
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
—MATTHEW 6:21
Success is what succeeds.
—MCGEORGE BUNDY,
National Security Adviser, secret memo to the President one week after the Bay of Pigs, April 24, 1961
War is always hell, but Florida seemed worse.
—MICHAEL GRUNWALD
on the Second Seminole War (1835–42) in The Swamp
PROLOGUE
STRAITS OF FLORIDA
WEDNESDAY, 5:28 P.M.
Pirates don’t drive minivans, dammit!”
Alejandro Cabrera was about to reply when he heard the first shot.
Booosh!
“What’s that?” Dennis shouted, whipping his head around.
The hollow explosion was followed by an accelerating whistle and, after a momentary pause, a loud splash just off the bow.
The four middle-aged Americans all hit the deck of The Big Pig, a white sportfishing boat with a pink stripe along its side.
“Mierda,” Alejandro hissed.
“What’s happening, Al?” Dennis whined, lying on the floor and covering his head.
“Cubans,” Brinkley said matter-of-factly.
“Cubans? Holy cow!” Dennis screamed. “Why, why, why?”
“What the f*ck have you gotten us into, Al?” Crawford clenched his teeth.
“Probably MGR,” Brinkley offered, his cheek pressed flat against the boat deck.
“MGR? What the f*ck is that?”
“Marina de Guerra Revolucionaria,” Brinkley replied as calmly as he could. “The Cuban navy.”
“I told you we were over the line! I freaking told you we were over the line!” Dennis shrieked.
“Goddamn bonefish,” Crawford growled. “We’re gonna get killed over a goddamn bonefish.”
“We are in international waters, gentlemen. There’s nothing to worry about,” Brinkley tried to reassure his friends. “Everybody stay calm.”
“Hijo de puta!” Alejandro spat.
“Holy cow . . . Holy cow . . .” Dennis muttered to himself, his voice quivering.
“Calm down, Deuce,” Crawford said. “What do we do now, Brink?”
Brinkley Barrymore III picked himself up and peered cautiously over the side of the boat, which was rocking gently on the ocean swell. He squinted toward the horizon through a pair of high-powered binoculars. The sky was starting to turn a blue-pink in the late sun. “There,” he said, pointing off the stern. Brinkley tossed the binoculars to the much larger man next to him. “Craw, give me an assessment and an ETA.”
Crawford Jackson caught the binoculars and, in one smooth motion, raised them to his eyes.
“Al, get down below. The radio’s in the hold. Call our friends for help. Let them know we’ve been intercepted.”
“The Big Pig is my f*cking boat, Brink!” Alejandro snapped. “I’m the captain. I say we hit the engine and run for it.”
“You want them to shoot at us?”
“I’ve got more horsepower,” Alejandro said. “This baby can outrun anything MGR has on the water.”
“Dead astern, naval patrol boat approaching at high speed. Cuban flag,” Crawford announced.
“Negative. We’re not running from the Cuban navy,” Brinkley said. “It’s not the prudent move.”
“I don’t surrender.” Alejandro scowled. “Cabreras never surrender.”
“Al, who knows what other ships are out there? And planes?” Brinkley said. “We aren’t running.”
“ETA: three minutes,” Crawford said.
“We are just fishing, gentlemen,” Brinkley insisted. “There’s no need to escalate.”
Alejandro removed his Miami Marlins baseball cap and rubbed his goatee.
“This is not the time, Al. Go down below. Call our friends. And take Deuce with you,” he said, pointing at Dennis, lying frozen on the deck.
“I don’t like it,” Al said, putting his cap back on and licking his lips.
“They’re still approaching at full speed,” said Crawford.
“Now, Al!” Brinkley raised his voice for the first time. “You have to call now.”
“Puta!”
“Two minutes,” Crawford announced.
“Deuce, get your ass off the floor and go down below to help Al. Do it now.” Brinkley was trying to contain himself. “This is no time for one of your panic attacks.”
“This is a perfect time for panic.” Dennis looked up, his face flushed and his eyes already red. “What am I gonna tell Beth?”