Chapter 38

I still can’t get over the fact that I now own seven producing oil wells and am expecting an eighth to come in within a month. Leonard was beside himself when he called to tell me that the seventh well came in two weeks earlier than expected. He also warned that the well they were currently drilling aboard Lucky J #2 might come in early, too.

I can live with that. As it is, the first six wells are pumping more than three million dollars a day! Leonard expects the newest well to perform as well as the first six and has no reason to expect anything less from the next one. Eight producing wells should produce more than four million dollars a day. Why the fuck did the drug cartel insist on continuing to produce and sell drugs? These eight wells will produce around $1.5 billion a year! Of course, there are considerable expenses to offset a lot of that amount, not the least of which is the share we have to pay the government before we pay labor, the cost of the oil tract lease, parts, equipment, supplies, fuel for the helicopters, fees for the barges that bring supplies, and taxes on the revenue.

Leonard already has two nearby locations planned for the next eight wells. They have to be nearby so we can pipe the oil from all eight of those planned wells into our one FSO, which I aptly renamed the Tanker Truck. The Tanker Truck remains anchored and stationary. Each manifold sits on the ocean floor near the center of four ocean floor wellheads. Those wellheads each connect to the manifold with flexible pipes. Another flexible pipe runs from the manifold on the ocean floor up to the surface, carrying the oil from those four wellheads to the waiting FSO.

One manifold currently connects four of the existing wells. A second manifold connects the other two producing wells, and soon, the just-completed well. With any luck, we will soon add another well. We contract with one of the big oil companies to now come by once every two weeks with a tanker to drain the FSO. A million barrels is the minimum they will come by to pick up.

Our FSO is nothing more than a converted medium sized oil tanker with a skeleton crew. In the event of a major storm or hurricane, it is set up so that they can quickly disconnect the pipes from the ocean floor and move the ship. Yeah, yeah, I know, but a boat full of more than two million gallons of crude oil deserves to be called a ship. Each pipe from the ocean floor to the FSO has a quick disconnect we can use once the flow is shut off. When we disconnect the pipes, the programmed buoyancy keeps them floating about a hundred feet beneath the surface. When our ship returns, a radio signal causes compressed air to expand flotation devices, floating the end of the pipes back to the surface where the FSO crew reattaches them.

The end plan is to have five manifolds on the seabed, each feeding the output from four wells to the FSO. Leonard estimates it will take less than three years to complete, provided we don’t have any major complications, such as hurricanes we need to dodge.

After the seventh well came in, I flew out to Lucky J #1 to celebrate with the men working aboard it. I caught a ride aboard the helicopter we use to rotate the crews. The men work two weeks, and then have two weeks off. The helicopter drops them off and picks them up at the NAS Joint Reserve Base New Orleans. The base is happy to lease a hangar to us and to do the maintenance for our helicopters to bring in a little extra income. Normally, though, the helicopters stay aboard the rigs to provide some defense against the cartel if necessary.

The Super Stallion helicopters have made five rescues or emergency medical airlifts from ships in the area since we can usually respond long before the U.S. Coast Guard can reach the area.

The celebration I had planned for the workers on the Lucky J #1 consisted of my thanking everyone for their hard work and handing an envelope with five thousand dollars in cash to each of them. Since no alcohol is allowed on the platform, we couldn’t celebrate with champagne. I got the distinct impression that they preferred the envelope.

Halfway through handing out bonuses to the day shift, I had an odd feeling. It wasn’t a feeling of danger per se, but one that there was trouble happening southwest of us. Nearly a minute later, the radio room paged the pilots, flight launch personnel, and medical personnel to the helicopter pad for a rescue. I knew I should go with them, even though I didn’t sense danger.

Thirty minutes later, we approached the location we had been given by the Coast Guard. The only sign of the boat was an oil slick on the surface, and a lot of debris floating in the water, including seven people.

These people had been in the water for over half an hour, and even though the water in the Gulf was slowly warming, they would soon start feeling the effects of mild hypothermia. The chopper settled just above the water, and we began throwing ropes to the closest people, pulling them over to us and helping them inside. Once inside, the doctors and nurse began triage and treatment.

The one body had severe burns all over it and much of his clothing had been burned away. Two men were suffering from lesser burns on their arms. Only one other person had a serious injury. He had a piece of metal shrapnel buried in his side. As we lifted him carefully into the chopper, I recognized him. The man with the shrapnel was Alejandro Castro, nephew of Fidel and only son of Raul Castro, Cuba’s current president. Once we had everyone aboard, we rushed back to the platform. The pilot called ahead to have the off-duty doctor and nurse prepare the small operating room, and to set out supplies to treat two patients with third degree burns on their arms.

When we reached the platform, they rushed Alejandro into our tiny operating room. The two men with burns went to the clinic to be treated. The rest were ushered into the mess hall. One man insisted on staying with Alejandro, although he didn’t say anything about Alejandro’s identity.

“There is barely enough room down there for the people who need to be there. Alejandro is in good hands,” I tried to reassure him, surprising the man that I knew Alejandro’s identity. I did lead him to the radio room so he could contact someone to let them know where they were and what had happened.

While he was on the radio, I phoned Dieter, explaining the situation. When Alejandro could travel, I wanted to ferry him to New Orleans, put him aboard a Citation X, and fly him to Havana. Dieter called back twenty minutes later. “The State Department has approved both flights pending approval from Havana,” he said.

I found Alejandro’s bodyguard and told him that I had permission to fly them into New Orleans to transfer to my private jet so I could fly them to Havana.

“Why would you do that?” he asked suspiciously.

“Because it’s the right thing to do. Just because I disagree with your politics doesn’t mean I can treat you badly or I’d have to treat half the people in America badly,” I replied. After thinking about my answer for several seconds, he broke into a smile, and then laughed.

When he contacted Havana again, they approved my flight into Havana. I called home and put a Citation X on standby. I wanted it ready to fly to New Orleans and prepared for an international flight. I didn’t know when Alejandro would be able to fly but wanted the jet available.

Half an hour later, one of the doctors came out to tell us that everything went fine, and the patient was in recovery. Between shock from the wound and the hypothermia, he probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer. He had been going into shock on the flight back to the platform and had to be treated for that. I explained that the man with me was his bodyguard and needed to be in the room with him. They made him shower and change into surgical scrubs with a mask before they’d let him into the dinky recovery room.

Once the bodyguard was situated, I asked the doctor for a guesstimate as to when Alejandro would be able to fly. “Probably tomorrow afternoon, provided there are no complications. The shrapnel wound wasn’t deep and didn’t hit anything important. The combination of hypothermia and shock was the biggest problem. He’s lucky there weren’t any sharks in the area the way he was bleeding,” he mused.

“He was in some sort of flotation device like waders attached to a small inner tube, so the water never reached his skin,” I explained.

The two men with burns were finished with their treatment for now. Both had received pain medicine. The doctors said they were in for some painful treatment to keep the burned areas of their arms from becoming infected. Fortunately, only the underside of their forearms was bad enough to require skin grafts.

We learned from the other men we pulled from the drink that they had been fishing when the motor died. Three men tried to fix the motor, and the motor exploded when one of them lit up a cigar. They barely had time to radio for help and give the Coast Guard a location before the boat sank.

In the morning, the doctors agreed that Alejandro could fly, but didn’t want him walking more than necessary. I asked the primary doctor to fly to Cuba with us to discuss the condition of the three injured men with Cuban doctors.

“Cuba?” he asked, surprised. Because they spoke Spanish, he had thought they were from Mexico.

“They are all Cubans who were out fishing. I already have approval from the U.S. Department of State and from Havana to make the flight,” I explained. He agreed to go, and I called to have the Citation X meet us in New Orleans for an international flight. As an afterthought, I asked to have a case of our tomatoes, a case of our strawberries, and a dozen gift sets of booze loaded.

Everyone wanted to know where we were flying, but I explained that our destination was need-to-know for now.

The doctors released Alejandro right after lunch, and we were quickly ready to leave. The dead man was on a litter, packed in ice, attached to the sponson on the starboard side of the chopper. We wheeled Alejandro to the doorway of the chopper and assisted him in getting aboard. The bodyguard eyed the three pintle-mounted heavy machine guns aboard the chopper. “For use against the drug cartels and pirates,” I shouted over the din of the chopper as we prepared to leave. He nodded his understanding.

Ninety minutes later, we were wheels up in the Citation X. Once we were at altitude, I told the pilots our real destination, not Miami like I had told them originally.

“I figured something like that,” one of the pilots commented. “You said it was an international flight but wouldn’t tell anyone our destination. Then you had us file a flight plan to Miami,” he continued. “Are we safe?” he asked.

“Both the U.S. Department of State and Havana have approved the flight so we can take these men home. Their fishing boat exploded and sank about sixty miles from our drilling platform,” I explained.

Eighty minutes after that conversation, the plane was on the ground in Havana and being directed to a spartan hangar that I guessed was a military hangar since it wasn’t as nice as the terminals for passenger jets. When the plane stopped rolling, it was easy to tell that we were in the right place as there was a crowd waiting for us.

I exited the plane first to be greeted warmly by Raúl Castro, despite protests from his bodyguards. I helped Alejandro descend the stairs from the plane and his father hugged him gently before directing him into a waiting wheelchair.

Alejandro’s bodyguard was next and was immediately pulled aside by someone who looked like another bodyguard, and they held a quiet conversation. Doc exited next and was immediately set upon by the Cuban doctor to find out what had been done. Doc also handed over the medical records of all the patients.

I was invited to dinner with Raúl and graciously accepted. He shouted something to one of his men, and told me that my pilots would be housed and fed. I told him that I had gifts for him on the plane, and he sent a nearby soldier to collect them. When I looked back at the plane, now that almost everyone else was gone, I saw the stretcher with the body being removed.

In the car, while we rode to his home, Raúl thanked me again, and then peppered me with questions. “How does a farmer own oil wells and a yacht?” was the first.

After getting over my surprise that he knew so much about me, I explained about being a volunteer Deputy Marshal, and that one of our jobs was protecting government employees. Then I explained about going with two of my men to protect a government employee who was meeting with Zhora, and that we killed Zhora and one of his bodyguards while protecting that man. The government couldn’t confiscate a private vessel that was in international waters, so they told me it was mine. They also wouldn’t be able to justify the expense of maintaining a luxury yacht. He asked about our run-in with the Azteca, and about capturing the oil drilling platforms. I gave him the same nearly truthful answers that I’d already given many times before.

“When I learned that you saved my son, I began checking on you,” he commented. “I learned that you were a farmer, but that didn’t explain why you were on an oil drilling platform. I had our intelligence check into you, wondering what sort of man held my son’s life in his hands.

“They finally heard from the governments of several South American and Central American countries; all assured us that you were a good man, and that Alejandro was safe. They also explained about your other activity as a broker.

“I was surprised when our friends in Moscow told us the same thing about you. They have evidently learned a lot about you as well and told me that you returned four stolen Fabergé eggs that you found in Zhora’s safe, and that you even acted as a broker for them, using your contacts to help them empty the accounts of the Merida Cartel.”

“You were very thorough,” I complimented.

“I was a concerned father,” he replied.

Dinner was a lavish affair, the kind I didn’t care for, but have learned to suffer through while looking as if I was enjoying myself. Sometimes, my job as occasional host aboard Pickup Truck requires my presence when we host foreign dignitaries. Every so often I was requested to make an appearance, other times my presence was pointedly discouraged. Personally, I preferred not being requested. I had ten tuxedos and an equal number of expensive suits in the closet of my stateroom aboard the yacht since I rarely wore one anywhere else.

Raúl was surprised when they served the tomatoes with dinner. The chef announced that the tomatoes were from my ranch and had been picked just this morning. He made the same announcement when he served the strawberries for dessert.

We retired to a sitting room after dinner where Raúl enjoyed a good Cuban cigar. At least, I assumed it was good. I’ve never learned to appreciate a cigar and politely declined his offer to try one. He marveled over the whiskey when he tried it, especially when he learned that it came from my ranch.

“I understand that you have given millions of dollars to help the poor and to help the wounded soldiers where you live,” Raúl commented.

“I don’t give them money, I give them a chance,” I clarified. “I’m helping the Wounded Warriors to get an education or jobs so they can support families. To help the poor, I’ve built a clinic where they can get medical care, and I’ve hired several of them who really want to work so they can support themselves. I believe in giving people a helping hand, but not a handout.”

“The people of Cuba are hardworking. Perhaps I could convince you to start a farm here to produce food to help us become more self-sufficient,” he suggested.

I couldn’t help myself, and my eyebrows rose in surprise. Surely, he knew that was blatantly illegal. With the background check he’d done on me, he also had to know that I worked for Federal Law Enforcement. What he hopefully didn’t know about was that Carlos would probably be upset with me just for saving Alejandro’s life. My mind raced, trying to come up with a polite way to decline the offer.

“I wouldn’t mind looking into the possibility, but it would require me to get approval from my government, first,” I replied, sure that they would reject the proposal.

“If they were to allow you to do this, I’m sure our coastal patrols would be much more proactive about intercepting suspicious vessels that use our waters on their way to the U.S. from Columbia and other South and Central American countries,” he suggested.

Shit, he was offering to stop drug traffickers who went through Cuban waters. “May I make a phone call?” I asked. He nodded and pointed at a nearby phone. Instead, I reached for the special cell phone I had just been given earlier today. With mixed feelings, I called the U.S. Department of State contact who had been assigned to me today.

“Anderson,” the male voice on the other end answered. I’d put the phone on speakerphone.

“Mr. Anderson, this is Jim Reynolds and I have my phone on speakerphone,” I replied.

“I was told that you might call. What can I do for you?” he answered.

“Mr. Anderson, this is Raúl Castro,” Raúl cut in.

“How may I help you, Mr. President?” Anderson asked. I was impressed at how smoothly he shifted to Raúl and that he still sounded casual, yet professional.

“I have just made a proposal to Mr. Reynolds, asking him to begin growing food here to help feed the people of Cuba. In return, I’m sure that our coastal patrols will be much more diligent about intercepting suspicious vessels that use our waters on their way to the U.S. from Columbia and other South and Central American countries.”

“What are your feelings on the matter, Jim?” my contact asked.

“I’m willing to consider it, but there are a lot of details that would need to be negotiated, assuming that I was able to get approval so the endeavor would be legal,” I replied.

“The administration is willing to consider the proposal. I can be there tomorrow morning,” Anderson offered, surprising me. Shit, there went my hoped-for dodge.