Tommy Carmellini was burning the last of the files when William Henry Chance noticed that two of the fishing boats were no longer in sight. “When did they leave?” he asked the naval officer, Lieutenant Fitzgerald.
“Several hours ago, sir. I noticed one of them going west under sail then, but I confess I haven’t been paying much attention to the others.”
Carmellini checked his watch—5:30 P.M. Still three or four hours of daylight left.
“Anything stirring out here?” Chance asked.
“No, sir. Pretty quiet. An old man and a girl walked along the road toward the monastery about three P.M., then turned and went back the way they had come.”
“Did they see your men?”
“No, sir.”
“Well …” In truth, Chance was nervous. He felt trapped, completely at the mercy of forces beyond his control. He took a deep breath, tried to relax as Carmellini stirred the ashes of the fire to ensure that all the paper he had thrown in was totally consumed.
“Would you like some MREs, sir?” the navy officer asked. “My men and I are getting hungry.”
Surprised at himself for not noticing his hunger sooner, Chance said, “Why not?” He hadn’t had a bite since last night.
They were munching at the rations when a helicopter came roaring down the coast from the west. The craft was doing about eighty knots, Chance guessed, when it went over the old monastery. It continued west for a half mile or so, then laid into a turn.
“Shit,” said Tommy Carmellini.
“Lieutenant, I think he’s onto us,” Chance told the SEAL officer.
“If he is, his friends can’t be far away,” the SEAL said. Standing in the center of the room so he was hidden in shadow, he used the binoculars to look at the chopper.
“Two men, one looking at us with binoculars.”
“Maybe it’s time we set sail,” Chance said as he folded the laptop and zipped it into its soft carrying bag. Then he put the whole thing in a waterproof plastic bag, which he carefully sealed.
“Stay down, stay clear of the windows,” the lieutenant said, and darted out the door away from the chopper.
Chance and Carmellini sat on the floor with their backs to the window. The chopper noise came closer and closer, then seemed to stop. It sounded as if the craft were hovering about a hundred feet to the east of the crumbling building. The rotor wash was stirring the remnants of the roof thatch that Chance could see.
Then he heard the sharp crack of a rifle. Two more reports in quick succession. The tone of the chopper’s engine changed, then he heard the sound of the crash.
He risked a peek out the window. The wreckage of the helicopter lay on the rocks by the water’s edge. Amazingly, one of the rotor blades was still attached to the head and turning slowly. A wisp of smoke rose from the twisted metal and Plexiglas. Chance could see the bodies of the two men slumped motionless in what remained of the cockpit. As he watched the wreckage broke into flames.
“Sorry about that,” the lieutenant said as he burst into the room, “but the copilot was holding a radio mike in his hand. I think it’s time we bid Cuba a fond farewell.”
“Let’s go,” Chance agreed.
The boats were fast, at least thirty knots. In the swell of the open sea beyond the peninsula they bucked viciously. Salt spray came back over the men huddled behind the tiny windscreen every time the boat buried its bow.
Chance settled back, wedged himself into place with the computer on his lap.
They were well out to sea, heading due south, when a Cuban gunboat rounded the eastern promontory and gave chase. A puff of smoke came from the forward deck gun and was swept away by the wind.
The splash was several hundred yards short.
The lieutenant at the helm altered course to put the gunboat dead astern. The Cuban captain fired twice more; both rounds fell short. Then he apparently decided to save his ammunition.
The boats ran on to the southwest.
Tommy Carmellini caught Chance’s eye and gave him a huge grin.
Yeah, baby!
The distance between the speedboats and the gunboat slowly widened over the next hour. After a while the gunboat was only visible as a black spot on the horizon when the boat topped a swell. As the rim of the sun touched the sea, the Americans realized the crew of the gunboat had given up and turned back toward the north.
Then they heard the jets. Two swept-wing fighters dropping down astern, spreading out as they came racing in, one after each boat.
“MiG-19s,” the lieutenant shouted. “Hang on tight.”
The shells hit the sea behind the boat and marched toward it as quick as thought. Lieutenant Fitzgerald spun the helm, the boat tilted crazily, and the impact splashes from the strafing run missed to starboard.
The jet that strafed Chance’s boat pulled out right over the boat, no more than fifty feet up. The thunder of the engines was deafening.
The jet made a climbing turn to the left, a long, lazy loop that took it back for another strafing run. His wingman stayed in trail behind him.
“Turn west, into the sun,” Chance shouted to Fitzgerald, who complied. The other boat did the same. The boats came out of their turns with the sun’s orb dead ahead, a ball of fire touching the ocean.
The jets behind overshot the run-in line, so they made a turn away from the boats, letting the distance lengthen, as they worked back to the dead astern position.
Fitzgerald handed Chance his M-16. “As he pulls out overhead, give him the whole magazine full automatic.”
Chance nodded and lay down in the boat.
As the jets thundered down, Fitzgerald turned the boat ninety degrees left, then straightened. The MiG’s left wing dropped as he swung the nose out to lead the crossing boat. He steepened his dive. As the muzzle flashes appeared on his wing root, Fitzgerald spun the helm like a man possessed to bring the boat back hard east, into the attacker.
The shell splashes missed left this time: Chance let go with the M-16 pointing straight up, in the hope the MiG would fly through the barrage.
Whether any of his bullets hit the jet as it slashed overhead, he couldn’t tell. The plane pulled out with its left wing down about thirty degrees, but its nose never came above the horizon. Perhaps the sun dead ahead on the horizon disoriented the pilot. The left roll continued as the plane descended toward the sea, then it hit with a surprisingly small splash. Just like that, it was gone.
The other jet was climbing nicely. The pilot had found his target: the other speedboat was upside down in the sea.
Fitzgerald turned toward the upset boat, kept his speed up.
The wingman took his time — he must realize this would be the last strafing run because the light was failing, and perhaps he was running low on fuel.
He came off the juice, kept the power back, so on this pass he was doing no more than 250 knots, a pleasant maneuvering speed.
Fitzgerald turned his boat so that he was heading straight for the jet. He had the throttle wide open. The jet steepened his dive.
The pilot held his fire and fed in forward stick.
Fitzgerald spun the helm as far as it would go and the boat laid over on its beam in a turn.
The jet didn’t shoot, but began pulling out. William Henry Chance let go with a whole magazine.
Closer and closer the plane dropped toward the sea, the nose still coming up, contrails swirling off the wingtips from the G-loads. The belly of the MiG almost kissed the water, came within a hair’s breadth, and then the jet was climbing into the sky trailing a wisp of smoke.
“Maybe you hit him,” Fitzgerald shouted.
“He sure came close enough.”