Well, if things went right, I wouldn’t need the second half; and if things went wrong, the second half wouldn’t get me out of Cuba.
I’m not a big fan of group tours — I did two group tours in Afghanistan. But I agreed it was good cover for this trip — until the time that Sara and I disappeared from the group. Then the alarms would go off. But if the Cuban police had any romance in their soul, they’d just think that hot Sara Ortega and horny Daniel MacCormick had slipped away to be alone together. And, as per Carlos, that would be our cover story if we were stopped by the police in the countryside. And the police might buy it — I mean, even if they’re Commies, they’re Latinos, right? But if we had sixty million dollars with us we’d have some additional explaining to do. That’s where a gun would come in handy.
I looked again at the travel packet and read that it was illegal to use American dollars in Cuba, and therefore our group would go to a Havana bank to convert our dollars into something called CUCs — Cuban Convertible Currency, for use by foreigners.
Carlos had told me to bring at least three thousand American dollars, two of which I’d gotten from him to settle our bet. Never turn down money — even after you’ve turned it down.
Also regarding currency regulations, Americans in Cuba were not allowed to use the Cuban peso for any transactions, and Americans could not buy pesos at a Cuban bank. Unfortunately, said Carlos, our Cuban contacts wanted to be paid in pesos, because they weren’t allowed to have or spend American dollars or CUCs. Therefore Sara would be carrying three hundred thousand Cuban pesos — worth about twelve thousand dollars — hidden on her person to be given to our Cuban contacts for risking arrest and imprisonment. That didn’t sound like a lot of money, but it was about fifty years’ salary in Cuba. I should have held out for five million. Dollars, not pesos.
I returned to my FAQ sheet and read that Wi-Fi was almost nonexistent in Cuba, and my cell phone would probably not have service. Carlos had mentioned this and pointed out the obvious, which was that communication between Sara and me would be difficult. It could also be a problem if, for instance, we tried to make an emergency cell phone call to the American Embassy. But as we learned in the Army, you go into battle with the equipment you have, not the equipment you want.
Sara and I could, of course, carry SATphones, but according to Carlos, that was a very big red flag for the Cuban authorities, and if you got stopped, you might as well be carrying a CIA ID card.
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.