“Is it a good contract?”
“Ten million dollars if we deliver them to U.S. soil.”
Seng and the others around the holographic display smiled. “That should add a tidy little amount to everyone’s nest egg,” he said.
“Doing good for profit,” Cabrillo said with a wide grin. “That’s our motto.”
AT precisely 8:30, Seng and his small force boarded the Nomad 1000 along with the two crewmen who would pilot the sub and guard it during the operation. The sub looked more like a luxury surface yacht than a submersible. Capable of running at high speeds on the surface with its diesel engines, it was battery powered beneath the waves. With a speed of twelve knots underwater, the Nomad could dive to a thousand feet. The interior was designed to hold twelve people comfortably, but Cabrillo had had her configured to carry three times that number tightly packed together, for missions such as this one.
The entry door was closed and sealed, and the craft, secured by a large sling, was lifted by a crane into the center of the moon pool. The operator looked into the control room and was given the descent signal by Cabrillo. Then, slowly, the large craft was lowered into the black water. As soon as she settled, divers removed the sling and were carried upward to the surrounding balcony by the crane.
“Radio check,” said Seng. “Do you read me?”
“Like you’re in the same room,” Linda Ross assured him.
“Are we clear?”
“No ship movement and only three fishing boats are heading out to sea. At thirty feet, you should stay well below their keels and props.”
“Keep the coffee on,” said Seng.
“Bon voyage,” quipped Cabrillo.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Seng came back.
A few moments later, the lights inside the Nomad blinked out and it vanished into the dark water of the harbor.
THE pilots of the sub relied on their Global Positioning System to set them on an exact course for the section of the city docks that was their destination. Detecting the pilings by their laser monitoring system, they were able to slip between the stern and bow of two container ships unloading cargo and maneuvered their way amid the giant pilings. Once under the wharves and out of sight from anyone above, they surfaced and closed the remaining gap using a laser night-penetrating camera that magnified the city lights filtering beneath the pilings.
“Floating maintenance dock dead ahead,” announced the chief pilot.
There was no hard check of weapons or survival gear. Though they all carried concealed handguns, they wanted to look like a small security unit moving through town without any menacing designs on the citizens. Their only inspection was to make sure their uniforms looked neat and presentable. The combat members of the team had all been members of the Special Forces. They were under strict orders not to commit mayhem unless it was absolutely necessary in order to save lives. Seng himself had served on a marine recon team and had never lost a man.
No sooner had the Nomad gently bumped against the floating dock than Seng, followed closely by his team, exited the sub and headed up the stairs to a little house that sheltered the dock and maintenance workers’ tools and small equipment. The door was easily unlocked from the inside, and Seng, with only a brief look to see if anyone was standing nearby, silently motioned everyone to follow him.
The lights of the cranes and the ships they were unloading lit up the dock like daylight, but luckily the exit door was opposite and the team formed in the shadows. Then, in a column of twos and marching in cadence, Seng led them to the end of the dock and around the warehouse.
His watch said 9:36. Exactly twenty-four minutes to arrive at the front gate of the prison. They found the truck nine minutes later, parked under a dim dock light beside the warehouse. Seng recognized it as a 1951 Ford delivery van that looked like it had passed the two-million-mile mark years ago. In the gloom he could make out lettering in a fancy red script on the side of the fourteen-foot cargo body. It read GONZALES FOOD PURVEYORS in Spanish. The driver was visible only by the glow of his cigarette.
Seng walked up to the open window, hand on his Ruger P97 .45 caliber automatic with suppressor, and said quietly, “Dos.”
The driver of the truck exhaled a cloud of nonfiltered cigarette smoke into the cab and replied, “Uno.”
“Pile in the back,” Seng ordered his team. “I’ll ride in front.” He opened the passenger door and slid onto the seat. There was no conversation as the driver crunched the worn-out transmission into gear and drove off the dock into the city streets. Every other light on the boulevard running along the bay was dark, either because the bulbs had burned out and had never been replaced or to conserve energy. After a few blocks the driver turned onto a main street and headed up a slight grade toward San Juan Hill.
Cuba’s second largest city, Santiago was in Oriente Province and had been the island’s capital in the seventeenth century. Surrounded by hills with coffee and sugarcane plantations, the city was a maze of narrow streets, with small plazas and buildings of Spanish colonial architecture bearing hanging balconies.
Seng remained silent, concentrating on scanning the side streets and studying the numbers on his portable GPS to make certain the driver was heading in the right direction. The streets were mostly empty of traffic, except for fifty-year-old cars parked along the curbs, and the sidewalks were filled with people simply out for an after dinner stroll or sitting in bars that reverberated with loud strains of the Cuban beat. Many of the stores and apartments above had paint that was faded and chipped, while others were coated in vivid pastel colors. The gutters and sidewalks were clean, but the windows looked like they had rarely seen a cleaner and a squeegee. For the most part, the people looked happy. There was much laughter and occasional singing. No one gave the truck a second look as it passed slowly through the main downtown section of the city.
Seng spotted a few men in uniform, but they seemed more interested in talking with women than watching for a foreign intrusion. The driver lit up another foul-smelling cigarette. Seng had never smoked, and he leaned further against his door and turned his face through the open window, lifting his nose in disgust.
Ten minutes later the truck reached the front gate of the fortress prison. The driver pulled past and stopped fifty yards down the road. “I will wait here,” he said, in almost perfect English. They were the first words he had spoken since the dock.
Seng read him like a book. “Educator or doctor?”
“I teach history at the university.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t be long. The truck will look suspicious if it sits here past midnight.”
“We should be out before then,” Seng assured him.
Seng climbed out of the truck cab and peered up and down the street cautiously. It was empty. He rapped softly on the cargo doors. They opened and his team dropped out and joined him on the brick-surfaced street. Together they marched as a unit up to the front gate and pulled the bell cord. A ringing could be heard in the guard’s office behind the gate. In a few minutes, a guard came wandering out, rubbing his eyes and temples. He had obviously been asleep on duty. He was about to tell the intruders to go away when he recognized Seng’s uniform and insignia as a colonel’s and he feverishly opened the gate, stood back and saluted.
“Sir, what brings you to the fortress this time of night?”
“Colonel Antonio Yarayo. I was sent by the Ministry of State Security with this team to interrogate one of the prisoners. A new investigation has turned up a suspected United States spy operation. We believe they have information which could prove useful.”
“Pardon me, sir, but I must ask you for the proper papers.”
“As a good soldier, Sergeant,” said Seng officiously, “well you should.” He handed the guard an envelope. “Why aren’t there more guards on duty?”