1 Red Right Return by John H. Cunningham

Author:John H. Cunningham
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Greene Street, LLC
Published: 2013-11-08T05:00:00+00:00

45

HAVANA CONTROL GUIDED ME through a series of taxiways until we finally stopped at the end of runway 4. I clicked the internal mike and turned to Truck.

“You ready?”

“Pedal to the metal, Bro.”

The others were strapped in and sweating profusely. The television crew and European passenger jets were lined up in wait while Betty roared down the runway. When we lifted into the sky there was a collective cheer from all on board. The tower vectored us east of the city and echoed Dumbas’s instructions to climb to 5,500 once out to sea. We gradually increased altitude, and I peered through my side window. The brown ribbon of Havana harbor spread out below us, extending like a ditch of sewage toward the green waters of the Gulf Stream.

It hit me that Dumbas hadn’t returned my money belt. Willy’s advance of $2,000 was history. An uncontrollable urge came over me. I broke off from Havana Control’s instructions and followed the ribbon of dark water along the city’s western shore. My altimeter read three thousand feet. The voice from the tower grew anxious.

I keyed the internal mike. “Hang on, partner.”

Confusion twisted Truck’s features. I gave the other two guys the circled okay sign with my index finger and thumb. Havana Control again repeated instructions for me to vector east. I cleared my throat.

“Havana Control, we’re having engine problems. We can’t maintain altitude.”

Truck’s eyes narrowed. I pressed the yoke forward. Betty began a steady descent toward the harbor. I scanned the coast until I could see the warehouse where I’d been arrested. Something Dumbas asked me resonated in my head, and I had to check it out. Little boats, smacks, a container ship….

No.

A big white fishing boat with red stripes on its bow-flare was moored at the warehouse. Could it be?

Betty rocketed toward #1 Obrapia like a Japanese Zero of similar vintage. A pallet of wooden crates sat on the dock. Just as I started to pull us out of the dive, some people ran out of the boat’s salon onto its back deck. One, two, three men, and…a woman?

Truck elbowed my bicep, inadvertently hitting one of the welts from the rubber hose. I pulled back on the yoke and barely cleared the Carnival’s tuna tower.

“You fucking crazy, man?”

“Did you see—”

“All I saw was you trying to kill us!”

The interrogation began to make sense. Why Dumbas was asking about the boat, along with Sanchez’s concerns.

The air traffic controller’s voice went apoplectic. I maintained that our engine problems were persisting. Our altitude had increased to six hundred feet, and between us and open water another target emerged. Truck’s mouth formed a perfect circle as we bore down on the towers of the Morro Castle, perched high atop the hill at the mouth of Havana harbor. Alarm bells would be ringing all over José Martí airport, radar screens at the closest military base, and even surface to air missile batteries hidden within the city.

I blocked out the screaming air traffic controller along with Truck from

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