I took a long drink of beer and felt the alcohol seep into my brain, which sometimes makes me more honest with myself. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that this Cuban caper had less to do with money than it had to do with Mac’s need for action and adventure, which had to do with my low tolerance for 9-to-5 work. That’s why I quit Wall Street and how I wound up in combat for crap pay. And also why I wound up in a small boat on a big ocean—though the sea adventure never really got the adrenaline going the way combat did. Also, to be honest, I may be having daddy issues. But that analysis was for another time.
In any case, I now had a single elegant solution to my money problems and my midlife boredom problems. Cuba. And if I listened to Sara—and Carlos and Eduardo—I was also doing a noble thing, striking a blow against a repressive regime and righting an old wrong. But most of all, I knew, I was doing something for me. And Jack. And by extension, for all of us whose lives had been twisted by war.
On that subject, I admitted that like most veterans I was a better person for having served. My discharge papers, like Jack’s, said Honorable, which was true. What was not true, however, was that my Military Occupation Skill—infantry commander—had no related civilian skill. Turns out it does.
I looked over at Sara’s table. She was gone.
I asked Tina for another beer, but she gave me a note written on a paper napkin. It said: Get some sleep. Tomorrow is a long day. Signed: S.
Or, as I used to say to my men on the eve of a dangerous operation, “Tomorrow is going to be the longest or the shortest day of your life. It’s up to you.” And, of course, it was up to the enemy, and the gods of war, and fate.
CHAPTER 12
To get us into the spirit of adventure travel, the off-brand charter airline was flying an old MD-80 that had seen better days.
Sara was sitting about ten rows ahead of me in the window seat next to an older guy who appeared to be asleep, or maybe he’d died of fright during takeoff.
I was on the aisle, and the middle-aged guy next to me—who said he was with a people-to-people group called Friendly Planet—was staring out the window as I read about Cayo Guillermo in the travel guide that Carlos had given me. Cayo Guillermo, aside from being a fisherman’s paradise, was also one of Cuba’s seven certified entry ports, meaning customs, immigration, and security, including, I was sure, naval patrol boats.
I put down the book, yawned, and looked around. The Yale group of about thirty people were scattered throughout the cabin, which was full, and I could only imagine who these other people were, what groups they were with, or why they were going to Cuba.
The Yale group had assembled in the hotel lobby at 5:30 A.M., as per instructions, and we had been greeted by our group leaders, a young man named Tad and a young woman named Alison, both of whom were Yale faculty, but neither of whom inspired confidence in their organizational ability. Tad was maybe thirty, but he looked younger, a result no doubt of a cloistered life in academia. Tad needed three years in the Army. Alison was not bad-looking, though she seemed a bit severe, maybe even tight-assed. If I were alone on this trip, she would be my challenge. Anyway, Tad and Alison, according to the itinerary, would be giving lectures on Cuban culture, time and place TBA, which I think means To Be Avoided.
Sara had kept her distance from me during the group assembly, which was fine with me at 5:30 A.M. She was wearing black slacks, sandals, and a snug green Polo shirt. I wondered where she was hiding the three hundred thousand Cuban pesos.
My travel attire, like that of most of the men in the group, was casual—khakis, Polo shirt, and walking shoes. Also regarding attire, Carlos had said that Sara and I needed to look like hikers when we escaped to the countryside, so we had backpacks instead of carry-on luggage, and we’d leave our suitcases behind when we slipped out of our hotel in Havana, never to return.
After our group assembly and roll call we’d all gone to another concourse for what seemed like endless paperwork, passport and visa checks, and general bureaucratic bullshit. Finally, after we’d paid a twenty-five-dollar Cuban Departure Tax, we’d gotten our boarding passes for Wing-and-a-Prayer Charter Airlines, or whatever they were called.
It was during this drawn-out process that I checked out my fellow travelers. Most of the group were couples, and most of them were middle-aged, and many of them seemed like they were having second thoughts about their Cuban adventure. Me too. I also noticed seven or eight singles, including Sara and me, and a few older ladies of the type you always see traveling with groups, sometimes to exotic places where medical care is iffy. I give them credit, but I wouldn’t give them my amoxicillin.
More importantly, I didn’t see anyone in our group whom I’d consider suspicious—except Sara and me. Also, interestingly, Sara Ortega was the only person on the Yale roster with a Spanish surname. I hoped they didn’t single her out when we landed in Havana.
Also on the roster was a name I recognized—Richard Neville, a bestselling author. I’d read one or two of his novels, which weren’t too bad. I recalled his photograph on the book jacket and I spotted him standing away—or aloof—from the group. With him was a woman, Cindy Neville, according to the roster. She was young enough to be his daughter, but there was no physical resemblance, so she must be his wife. Cindy was a looker, and I wondered what she saw in him. Probably the bulge in his pants—the wallet, not the crotch.
Also on the roster was a man named Barry Nalebuff, a Yale professor who, with Tad and Alison, would be giving lectures, TBA.
Anyway, after the third or fourth head count and some confusing instructions from Tad and Alison, we had time for a quick cup of coffee and what might be my last buttered bagel on earth. Then to the gate.
Now, forty minutes out of Miami, we were already beginning our descent into Havana—or hell, according to Eduardo and Carlos. I could imagine what this flight was like in the 1950s; high rollers, movie stars, mobsters, and thrill-seekers from New York and Miami, flying on luxurious airliners to sinful Havana—casinos, prostitutes, sex shows, pornography, and drugs, all of which were in short supply in 1950s America. Old Havana must have been a deliciously decadent town, and it was no wonder that the corrupt Batista government fell like a rotten mango. I recalled that Sara’s grandfather had gotten out on one of the last commercial flights from Havana to Miami. Now his granddaughter was back, and I hoped she shared his luck in getting out.
The Communists, like the radical Islamists I fought, are not fun-loving people, and when they take over, they become the fun police. I once told a captured Taliban fighter, through a translator, “Life is short, sonny. Get laid, have a few laughs and cocktails, and dance a little,” but he had his own agenda.
The guy sitting next to me got tired of the view and said, “It’s about time we normalized relations.”
“Right.”
“And end the trade embargo.”
“Good idea.”
“Our government has been lying to us.”
“Now you tell me.”
“Seriously, the Cuban people are like us. They want peace. And better relations.”
Actually, they wanted to escape to Miami, but I said, “That’s good.”
“I think we’re going to be pleasantly surprised.”