The Black Hawk’s timing was a little off, however, and I didn’t know if that had to do with the storm, or if it had to do with Keith not fully understanding our situation, or if it had to do with typical chain-of-command inability to act quickly and decisively. Or maybe, to be cynical, the Company was trying to decide if this whole mission needed to be buried at sea. As I said, I’d worked with CIA Special Ops in Afghanistan, and they were good at what they did. And when they made mistakes—like directing a drone to launch a Hellfire missile into a house full of civilians—it was not a mistake; it had a purpose, and you’d never know what that was, because dead men tell no tales.
So, that was my post-action report and my estimation of the completed but unsuccessful mission. More importantly, my DEROS—Date of Estimated Return from Overseas—had come, and I was home.
My post-action report regarding Sara Ortega, however, was more complicated, and that awaited further Intel.
In life, love, and war, there are usually identifiable winners and losers. But with this Cuban mission, it was hard to tell if anyone won. I think Sara understood that Felipe hadn’t been completely honest with her, and I was sure that the CIA hadn’t been honest with Felipe—or Eduardo. And those two certainly hadn’t been honest with me. Nor had Sara, for that matter, but I’m sure she thought she was lying to me for my own good. That’s the way we justify lies to people we love. As for Felipe, he lied for his own good, but I fucked his girlfriend, so we’d call it even. Did I miss anyone? Well, Jack, who never trusted anyone from the beginning. Old guys have seen too much, and they trust no one. That would be me someday if I lived long enough. As for Carlos . . . well, Fishy Business indeed.
And all of this reminded me of Antonio quoting Hemingway about how the Cubans always double-crossed each other. I guess Hemingway lived in Cuba long enough to come to this conclusion—and he hadn’t even met Antonio, Carlos, Felipe, or Eduardo. Or Sara Ortega, who hadn’t actually double-crossed me, but who’d lied to me. It occurred to me that the Cuban exile groups and the CIA deserved each other.
I mean, this was all one big circle jerk, and if anyone was a winner, maybe it was the CIA. They needed a win in Cuba. They were long overdue.
I arrived at Charter Boat Row and walked out to the end of the long dock where The Maine had once been berthed, as I’d done so many times in the early-morning hours before sunrise.
The last slip was empty, so no one had yet taken it over.
I looked out at Garrison Bight, at the harbor lights reflecting off the water, and at the clear, starry sky and the moon setting in the west.
I recalled the last time I’d seen The Maine here, the night before Jack drove me to Miami International Airport. I think I’d had a premonition then that I’d never see her again, but that had more to do with me not making it home than The Maine not making it home.
I thought, too, of the time that Carlos, Eduardo, and Sara had come walking down this dock, and Jack saying, “Hey! She’s a looker.” He should have added, “I see trouble coming.” Not that it would have made a difference.
I didn’t feel like going home, so I sat on the dock with my back to a piling and stared out at the water and the sky and smelled the salt air, which always reminds me of being a kid in Maine.
It seemed to me that there was a purpose to all that happened, and the purpose was to free me of all my worldly possessions, my debts and obligations, and also to free myself from what had become the equivalent of my job on Wall Street.
Also, I’d more than fulfilled my wish to have a new adventure. I could have done without the shoot-out in the mangrove swamp or the drive-by shooting with the Zhuk, and for sure I could have done without the 30mm cannon fire. But everything was within my skill set, and a return to combat duty was just what an Army shrink would have ordered to make me healthy and happy. The best cure for post-traumatic stress is new stress.
And now I needed to decide what to do next, which I would do tomorrow. Or the next day. My road trip to Maine sounded good.
I think I drifted a bit, and in those unguarded minutes of half-sleep, Sara’s face and voice crept into my thoughts.
I’d obviously fallen hard, but the reality was that we had not a single thing going for us outside of Cuba. Holiday romances can be intense, but as the old song said, too many moonlight kisses seem to cool in the warmth of the sun.
Aside from the good sex, there was the question of trust. I don’t know as much about women as I think I do, but I was fairly sure that Sara’s lies were situational, a requirement of the mission, and not who she was. That’s why she gave me a copy of the treasure map: to show she trusted me, but also to atone for her lies. I could forgive the lies she’d been instructed to tell me, and the lies of omission—except the lies about Felipe, which were more personal than professional—and she’d lied to him, too. And that could be a peek into the future. And what the hell was she doing in Miami?
So I should consider myself lucky that I’d dodged that bullet along with the others. Mac was free at last.
* * *
The sky was getting lighter and the gulls were squawking.
I stood, yawned, and stretched. I’d spent a lot of nights sleeping on my boat, but not many sleeping on the dock.
Charter Boat Row was coming alive and I saw crews and captains getting their boats ready for customers who’d be along in an hour or so. Now that I was not part of this, I could admit it wasn’t so bad, and I would miss it.
I took a last look at The Maine’s empty slip, and I pictured her there, then I turned to walk back along the dock to go home for a cup of coffee and start packing for Maine. Did I own a sweater?
At first I thought I was still half asleep, or my brain was still conjuring up ghost images, or maybe like a lot of guys who’ve loved and lost, I was seeing her face on every woman walking by. But the woman walking toward me on the dock was wearing white jeans, a blue Polo shirt, and a baseball cap. She had a nice stride.
She waved to me and called out, “I had a feeling I’d find you here.”
We didn’t exactly run into each other’s arms, but we did move pretty fast, and within a few seconds we were embracing, and she said, “Permission to come aboard.”
“Welcome aboard.”
Corny, I know. But . . . what the hell.
THE END