Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(52)

“But you are taking me to Cuba?” Judd narrowed his eyes and rubbed his neck, which was starting to ache.

“I couldn’t say, sir. I’m just following orders.”

“I don’t understand.” Judd winced at the confusion.

“It’s nearly oh five hundred,” the officer said, showing Judd his watch. “Preflight checks are complete. As soon as you get strapped in, we can go. I have to ask you to remove any cell phone.”

Judd handed over his phone reluctantly, but he ran through in his mind the most important numbers that he had memorized: the State Department’s Operations Center hotline and Jessica’s temporary cell.

“I’m ready.” Judd steeled himself. “Anything else I need to know?”

“No, sir.”

“I don’t have any baggage,” Judd said.

“Of course not, sir. I’ll be back once we’re in the air.”

The officer exited the plane and Judd buckled himself into a jump seat along a side wall of the C-140. He watched the giant ramp close, leaving him alone in the dark in the belly of the whale. A pang shot through his spine. What have I gotten myself into?

A few seconds later, a fluorescent light flickered on, illuminating the cargo hold, but not relieving Judd’s sudden anxiety. He then heard the engines fire up and the loud whirring of the four huge propellers.

After a long taxi, the giant plane rumbled down the runway, the walls shuddering violently during takeoff. Within moments, the C-140 reached altitude and leveled off, allowing both the plane’s fuselage and its sole passenger to relax.

Judd slumped back in the jump seat. Exhausted, alone, and ensconced in the white noise of the engines, he fought off the urge to sleep. He hated tight spaces. It wasn’t quite claustrophobia, but, growing up in rural Vermont, he was always more comfortable out in the open, plenty of air, plenty of sky. Tightly packed trains were bad; small, crowded airplanes were worse. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about that in the back of the cavernous C-140. At least— “Sir!”

Judd opened his eyes.

“Sir! We are beginning our descent.”

Judd blinked a few times. He realized that he must have dozed off.

“Where are we?” Judd asked.

“Sir, you need to put this on,” the officer said, handing him an orange jumpsuit.

“I’m not wearing this. It looks like a prison uniform.”

“I don’t know, sir. My orders are to have you wear it before we allow you to deplane.”

“What? I don’t even know where we’re landing.”

“Yes, sir. We will be arriving at GTMO in”—he checked his watch—“fourteen minutes.”

“GTMO?”

“Gitmo, sir.”

“You’re taking me to Guantánamo Bay?” Judd’s eyes widened and his heart raced.

“Yes, sir. That’s our destination.”

“Why would a State Department official wear a prisoner uniform at a military detention camp?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. I’m sure you’ll be briefed on arrival,” he said. “I only know that I have strict orders that you wear it before getting off the plane at Gitmo. The jumpsuit and this.” The officer held up a small black cloth hood.

A hood! Judd’s abdomen convulsed. What the hell have I got myself into?





47.


U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.

FRIDAY, 8:03 A.M.

Assistant Secretary for Western Hemisphere Affairs Melanie Eisenberg tapped the microphone on the podium and checked her hair in the monitor. The Press Room was littered with television cameras and journalists. Behind Eisenberg, the back wall was covered with a navy blue curtain and an oval sign showing the world map and DEPARTMENT OF STATE / WASHINGTON. An American flag rested on its pole, perfectly positioned to appear over Eisenberg’s right shoulder in the television frame. The front of the lectern displayed a circular State Department logo, an eagle gripping an olive branch in one talon and arrows in the other.

“Are we ready?” Eisenberg barked at an aide off to the side of the stage, who nodded.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, holding her chin high, “we have a simple statement this morning. As many of you know, Cuban authorities seized a private American fishing vessel operating in international waters on Wednesday evening. In the interest of prudence, we have refrained from making any public statements until we had ascertained all the facts.”

Eisenberg made eye contact with a boyish reporter sitting in the front row. “We now can confirm that four American citizens have been detained by the Cuban government.” She stared directly into the camera. “This illegal act undermines the progress we have made establishing dialogue with the government in Havana. It has put at risk all of the efforts to date to resolve our diplomatic impasse that goes back more than half a century. We hoped this incident would be quickly resolved in a peaceful manner, but that has not happened. The United States cannot stand idly by as our citizens are treated in this manner.”

Eisenberg held up a scolding finger. “I would like to remind this audience and the American people that while we have removed Cuba from the list of official state sponsors of terrorism, this administration will continue to uphold our policy of not negotiating with hostage takers. Let me be very clear: There will be no negotiations.”