Black Horizon by James Grippando Read Free Book Online Page B

Chinatown was no different from any other Havana neighborhood: the mark of Hurricane Miguel was everywhere.
    Before heading out to sea and slamming into the Scarborough 8 as a tropical storm, Miguel had blown across Cuba as a Category 1 hurricane and dumped more than a foot of rain in twenty-four hours. It had taken two full days for floodwaters to subside. Block after block was littered with fallen palm fronds and tree limbs, blown-off roofing tiles and pieces of old buildings, and tons of other debris. The neighborhood cleanup strategy was to push the mess into huge piles along the curb. Some residents used shovels and rakes while others improvised with boards, poles, branches, or whatever else they could find. The odor of wet garbage hung in the hot air.
    Josefina cut a winding path down the cluttered sidewalk, with occasional side steps into the street to find a clear passage. No need to check for traffic. Buses weren’t running, and anyone fortunate enough to own a car, a truck, or a taxicab was also smart enough not to waste precious fuel after a major storm. Most of Havana was still without electricity, so the usual sounds of the city were absent. No music blaring from las tiendas . No pockets of conversation at the walk-up café windows along the sidewalk. No groups of old men arguing over games of dominoes at shaded tables. Even the government offices remained closed—with one major exception.
    “Go to MINBAS,” Josefina’s friends had told her at lunch. “There is supposed to be an announcement at three o’clock.”
    And so, off Josefina had gone.
    MINBAS was the Ministry of Basic Industry, which administered Cuba’s energy program and offshore exploration. By Tuesday afternoon, the ministry had become the go-to destination for relatives and friends of Cuban workers on the Scarborough 8. All were desperate for details, having heard nothing from their government except that the rig had been evacuated. Misinformation was flying through Havana neighborhoods, and Josefina was not alone in fearing a major catastrophe. The forthcoming three p.m. announcement might turn out to be just another rumor, but word of mouth was all Josefina had to go on. The Internet was no help. Even in ideal weather conditions, Web access was sketchy, as the U.S. trade embargo prevented Cuba from linking up to the Web via a direct fiber-optic line to the states, leaving the island cyber-dependent on a single underwater line from Jamaica and on even less reliable satellites. The power outage had shut down all Internet cafés except those that were accessible by tourists in the most expensive hotels. The afternoon announcement from MINBAS was her only hope.
    Josefina approached a group of women on the sidewalk. MINBAS occupied seven stories of an unremarkable office building that was built in the minimalist and drab architectural style of the former Soviet Union. The women were standing right outside the main entrance. Directly overhead, a huge banner the length of three city buses hung from the roofline, draping over the windows of the top three floors: CADA CUBANO , it read, UN EJÉRCITO (each Cuban, an army).
    Josefina didn’t know any of the women, but their worried expressions gave her something in common and made them seem approachable.
    “Any news?” asked Josefina.
    “Nada,” the women told her. Nothing.
    Josefina continued down the sidewalk outside the ministry, scanning the crowd but seeing no one she knew. It was apparent that not everyone waiting for the announcement from MINBAS was a friend or loved one of an oil-rig worker. Many had gathered to get information of any kind, or because they had nowhere else to go. Generators were scarce throughout the city, so the promised broadcast from the temporary audio system that the government had rigged up outside MINBAS was, for many, the only working radio in the neighborhood.
    At three o’clock, the speakers crackled. Josefina’s pulse quickened. Her friends, it seemed, had