Free The Aztec Heresy by Paul Christopher Page A

pulled open the curtain. Ramirez, stoop-shouldered with his gray hair buzzed short like a convict, stood calmly, holding a steaming mug in one hand. He handed the mug to his captain. Cruz accepted it gratefully and took a long swallow of the thick, sweet cafecito. Cruz smiled. He commanded the only submarine in the world that had its own espresso machine.
    ‘‘Any sign of the Mexican?’’
    ‘‘Not yet.’’
    ‘‘This isn’t my favorite part of the game,’’ said Cruz.
    ‘‘No, sir.’’
    Cruz emptied the mug and handed it back to Ramirez.
    ‘‘Let’s go.’’
    He heaved himself up off the bunk, grabbed his peaked cap off the hook on the bulkhead, and jammed it down on his head. He followed Ramirez down the claustrophobic corridor that ran the length of the old boat, ducking as he pulled himself through the narrow bulkhead doors. He reached the control room, nodded to the few officers of the watch, then went after Ramirez up the ladder through the conning tower to the bridge lookout.
    ‘‘Why do submarines always smell like your feet, Ramirez?’’ Cruz asked, grinning and breathing in the sea air.
    ‘‘My feet smell like the revolution, Capitaine. It is a mark of patriotism to have feet that smell like mine. Che himself said so.’’
    ‘‘You knew Guevara then?’’ Cruz answered, continuing the old joke.
    ‘‘I washed his feet, Capitaine. I have endeavored to make my own smell exactly as his did.’’
    ‘‘Good for you, Ramirez. Fidel would be proud.’’
    ‘‘I thought the Great One had been stuffed and mounted over his own mantel,’’ said Ramirez.
    ‘‘Don’t believe everything his brother Raul tells you, Ramirez.’’
    ‘‘No, sir.’’
    ‘‘Hand me my glasses.’’
    ‘‘Yes, sir.’’ He handed Cruz a pair of Russian-made Baigish night-vision binoculars. The captain took them and scanned the water between the waiting submarine and the shore. Five minutes passed. It was definitely getting lighter. Cruz swore. If the crazy bastard thought he’d wait until broad daylight he had another thing coming.
    ‘‘Time?’’ "O five fifteen.’’
    ‘‘Deirymo,’’ muttered Cruz in Russian
    ‘‘Cono,’’ agreed Ramirez in Spanish.
    ‘‘There he is,’’ said Arkady Cruz, pointing.
    ‘‘Asshole,’’ said Ramirez in perfect, unaccented English.
    The boat was a Canadian Grand Marine inflatable S650, twenty-one feet long and overpowered beyond specifications with two-hundred -and-fifty horsepower Evinrudes capable of ripping the no-draft boat through the water at speeds in excess of seventy miles per hour. The boat had zero radar reflectivity and a fourteen-hundred-kilo cargo capacity. There was a single .50-caliber machine gun mounted in the bow. Angel Guzman had more than a score of the big rubber boats hidden in the mangroves along the coast from Isla Mojeres all the way down to Chetumal and the border of Belize. Like the Babaloo, the boat racing toward them out of the rising darkness was colored pale blue and was almost invisible on the water. Each one was equipped with two camouflage awnings made out of heavy netting, one for the open ocean and one for the jungle swamps. Each carried enough fuel to give the boats almost a five-hundred-mile range.
    The boat turned harshly, throwing up a rooster tail of spray, and abruptly stopped beside the low-riding hull of the submarine. The machine gun in the bow was unmanned. There was only one person in the boat: a uniformed man at the wheel. The uniform was standard jungle camouflage, fatigues neatly pushed into combat boots, a canvas-holstered sidearm on the hip. The only thing out of the ordinary was the bloodred beret the man wore, the mark of an officer in the army of Angel Guzman, an Angelista, as the American DEA referred to them.
    ‘‘Time to go,’’ said Arkady. Ramirez nodded. ‘‘Take her down to the bottom and keep her there. Unless Signor Guzman decides to boil me in a pot for his breakfast or carve my