The Cuban Affair

by Nelson DeMille

She stopped walking and faced me. “I told Carlos and Eduardo you were the right man for this job.” Before I could think of a response, she threw her arms around my neck and we were locking lips on the Malecón. She let go and we continued our walk. She asked, “Was that a gun in your pocket?” “That was my Cuban Missile Crisis.”

If you fell into the hands of the Taliban, you’d wish you were dead. They’d cut off your balls, then slice off your face with razor knives. And they’d hold your head and make you look in a mirror at your own faceless red skull. And you couldn’t close your eyes, because you’d have no eyelids. And then they’d make you watch the dogs eat your face and your balls. Then they’d give you a pat on the back and let you go. And that was why you’d blow your brains out before you let yourself get captured by them.

I haven’t prayed since Afghanistan, and then only when there was incoming, but Sara was insistent, and I followed her to the altar rail. This whole day would have played out differently if I’d kept my pepino in my chinos. On the other hand, if I hadn’t yet scored, I’d now be on my knees, praying for it.

And while I was at it, I prayed that we’d both get out of here alive—and that one of us would not get pregnant.

“You agreed to follow orders, Captain. I’m not going to let you compromise the mission.” I had a flashback to the ops bunker. Everyone who gave orders from the rear seemed to think they knew what was going on at the front. Well, if you’re not standing next to me when the shit is flying, you don’t know what’s going on. “I agreed to do the job. My way.”

but you really can’t go home again. Unless you’re just there to pick up what you left behind.

Which reminded me of an old Army saying—“If you’re taking intense fire and you’re keeping cool while everyone around you is scared shitless, then you’re not fully understanding the situation.”

Jack was checking out the cigar lady in the fishnet stockings and asked, “Where does a sailor get laid around here?” Recalling Sara’s lecture on that subject, I informed him, “Being with a prostitute will get you four years in the slammer.” “That sucks. But how much do they charge?” “Jack, you’re on an important mission. Keep your dick in your pants.” I should talk. Jack looked unhappy, so I said, “I’m sure you can charm the pants off a señorita after a few drinks and dinner.” He smiled. “I need a wingman.” “I have a date.”

He asked, “Why is Havana so much fucking hotter than Key West?” “Must be the women.” He laughed. “Yeah. Felipe said if you stick a candle in a Mexican woman it comes out melted. Stick a candle in a Cuban woman and it comes out lit.”

“Maybe Eduardo was right. When you overthrow the regime, shoot them all. Or better yet, torture them with a job in the hospitality industry.”

and as my Scottish ancestors used to say, “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley,” meaning, “This shit’s not working.”

That the Americans would not allow a Communist country to exist off its shores.” Why not? We’ve got California and Vermont.

Eduardo was the only person in Cuba—except for Jack and Felipe—who knew where Dan MacCormick and Sara Ortega were going, and he even knew what we were driving. And if the police picked him up, and ID’d him as Eduardo Valazquez, the notorious anti-Castro enemy of the state, they’d ask him why he was in Cuba as they were electrifying his nuts. Eduardo had assured us he would take the poison—but you never know.

Actually, I would’ve liked to have been in Sara’s room at midnight to deliver my own judgment to Antonio’s nuts.

Well, it had already been a long day and a longer night and I should be tired, and I probably was, but I was fully alert. I remember this feeling in Cantstandthishit Province.

Felipe ordered a daiquiri, which is a close cousin to a pink squirrel, and I knew I could beat him up.

“Everybody in my company had a good-luck charm. Mostly crosses, some rabbit’s feet, or an AK bullet that was the bullet that would’ve killed you if you didn’t have it on you. Stuff like that.” “Does that mean nobody in your company was KIA?” “Yeah, guys got killed. But if you had a charm, you didn’t think you were gonna get killed.” “Right. Well, thanks for lending it to me.” “It worked.” “Must have.” I downed half the rum.

Life at the edge is all about life-and-death decisions. Pilots, sea captains, combat commanders, deep-sea divers, sky divers, mountain climbers, and other risk-taking crazies know this, and they see it as a challenge. You can get away with a bad decision, but not a bad mistake.

The military teaches you about the loneliness of command, and the weight of command that sits on your shoulders and is the combined weight of everyone whose lives you are responsible for. It is the worst feeling in the world. But that’s what you signed on for, and no one ever said it was going to be easy.

God gives you only one miracle to save your ass. The next one is on you.

Jack came into the cabin. “How we doing?” “What’s the radio frequency for Dial-a-Prayer?” He looked at the radar. “I think you need a higher frequency.” “Right.” “You got any more tricks up your sleeve?” “I’m thinking.” I asked him, “What’s happening below?” “Sara’s in the port stateroom, maybe catching some Zs. Felipe’s in the galley lightening our load of rum.” “He earned a drink.” “You want one?” “No. But you go ahead.” Jack remembered one of his T-shirts and said, “I only drink a little, but when I do, I become a different person, and that person drinks a lot.” I smiled.

The rules of the sea—the customs and traditions—say that you need to come to the aid of a ship in distress. But if the distress is a shoot-out on the high seas, there might be a lot of sea captains who’d rather avoid that, on the theory that your distress was not the elements, or an act of God, and not the kind of distress that obligated them to risk their own asses or the asses of their crew or passengers. The fuel situation, however, and the injured crew member might awaken a captain’s sense of brotherly obligation. I suggested, “Tell them we’re running out of booze.” Jack, whose dark humor is darker than mine, asked me, “Should I say we came in second in a Cuban fishing tournament?” “Worth a try.”

I heard something coming out of the speakers, then Bobby Darin started crooning, “Somewhere beyond the sea, somewhere waiting for me, my lover stands on golden sands . . .” I would have preferred my Jay Z CD for morale boosting, but Jack wanted to use my CDs for skeet shooting.

Jack stuck his head up the stairwell and said, “Felipe’s okay. But he has a suggestion.” “What?” “Transmit a surrender to the Stenka, come around, and head toward him.” He added, “He says he’ll do it in Spanish.” “Tell him to go fuck himself in English.” “Sara sort of told him that already.” “Good.”

But I would eventually come to terms with what happened in Cuba as I did with what happened in Afghanistan. And as Jack did with Vietnam. Survival is a strong instinct, surrender is not an option, and all combat is justifiable homicide. But you pay a price.

The CIA’s motto, “The truth shall set you free,” was kind of an understood joke, while Key West’s motto, “One Human Family,” is a sad joke. Somewhere in between the cynical lies and a naïve trust in the human race was the true human condition: complex and capable of anything from heroism and self-sacrifice to betrayal and murder. That’s what I saw in Afghanistan, and what I saw in Cuba.

Old guys have seen too much, and they trust no one. That would be me someday if I lived long enough.

If it’s true that no one wants to see how sausages or laws are made, then it’s doubly true that no reader wants to see how books are written. It’s not pretty. But someone has to see this, and Dianne and Patricia see me, hear me, and put up with me during my many months of sausage-making. Truly, this book would not have happened without them. Thanks again, and know I am appreciative.