Please retweet this post to your friends. - Thanks! _____________________________________________________________ A. J. Phelps is a pseudonym for an analyst of global affairs and author of international thriller fiction. Check out his debut novel, Havana Dawn. Follow him on Twitter at ajphelpsauthor1.
CIA Deputy Director of Operations Musgrave watched the hyperbolic Comandante with Belinda Cooper on an HD monitor in his private meeting room. The prim and proper veteran agent was a rarity in the CIA’s top echelon – a careerist from academe in a normally appointed post. That is, the president could never remove him, at least easily.
That was a compromise struck between the opposition-led Senate and Belling in exchange for confirmation of Bill Taylor as Director of Central Intelligence (DCI). Musgrave calmly sipped a cup of black coffee with cream and sugar – an old habit from the innumerable and boring faculty meetings at Tufts in another life – from a fresh pot he brewed himself and propped his head up with his left arm as the public show ended. He flipped off the transmission from Havana and then clasped his hands together. “Is Project Hermes compromised, Belinda?” “Two agents in four months and now this failed putsch,” she replied thumping her black ink pen on her binder labeled PROJECT HERMES – TOP SECRET. “Someone at CIA tipped them. I’m certain. The Cubans knew exactly how, when, and where to defeat the rebellious troops. There is no doubt in my mind.” “Still the President must not be told about this project,” he said draining the remainder of the caffeinated liquid in his blue-patterned decorative porcelain china. “Make sure it stays that way.” “Yes, sir,” she replied to Musgrave. This man is so brave, she thought. He cleaned his lips with a yellow linen napkin. “Hermes is the Company’s own private operation to do what this president does not have the courage to do.” “And so it shall be.” “Is Cade ready for his next assignment?” “Yes. And if our sources are correct, it could be a blockbuster.” The bespectacled director grinned with pleasure at what he heard. _____ At the same time, Cade made his way to the Havana seaside. Always observant, he stopped to check a stylish hat in a hard currency shop. Well, not really. In the mirror reflection he saw two plain-clothed secret police agents milling about outside. “Señora, hay salida por detrás?” Cade asked and quickly scooted out to the rear of the shop onto a cul de sac. One goon was in hot pursuit from behind. Surely, the other must be headed to block his escape. Cade was still wearing his tourist sandals which made running more difficult, but obviously his cover had attracted attention. Dammit! Or their amigo in Washington had tipped them about Cade just like his friend, Agent Echeverri, before him. Sure enough, a hulking thug was about to greet him at the end of the passageway. Cade gave a running karate kick and knocked him out of the way. The goon fell to the cobblestone and as his buddy arrived, both started chasing Cade who narrowly had crossed the wide avenue with honking horns to the Malecón, Havana’s iconic waterfront promenade. The normal nighttime party crowds were just starting to gather and perhaps he could use them to his advantage. Cade blended with a knot of partiers and started sucking up a piña colada from inside a delicately carved pineapple. One security agent passed by, but where was the other one? “Señor,” Cade heard the other one call. “Tengo algunas preguntas para Ud.” Cade hurled his drink squarely at the head of the agent and leaped over the seawall. Fuck he thought. That water looked deep. Splash! He disappeared into the night treading water as he had learned at the YMCA several years after his boating accident. Cade was a helicopter pilot from the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq before joining the Company, a real daredevil, not a world-class swimmer. When he was ten, Cade and Grandpa Forrester went fishing for bass in Enid Lake outside Oxford, Mississippi. The cold did not matter. Cade and his grandpa always had a ball together. Tragedy struck when Cade fell overboard trying to help haul in a feisty three-pounder smallmouth. He fought the murky water without his life preserver – a cardinal sin in that situation.
He slipped under the frigid water and touched bottom with horrible thoughts coursing through his mind. He surfaced a minute later and Grandpa pulled him back into the boat – his biggest catch that day!
At one point, Cade thought he would not survive cold, shaking, and smelling of fish. No training later as an army grunt or pilot totally eliminated the fear of deep water from his mind. A light patrol craft made a quick pass scanning the muddy waters with a searchlight. Nothing. --- After a half hour Cade figured, dodging the patrol, he crawled back onto nearby rocks to return to the seaside concrete seawall drawing the stares of partygoers, but luckily not the secret police. Bedraggled and slowly drying in the cool windy conditions, the surrounding air filled with the aroma of deep-fried chopped ham, pork shoulder, cheese and pickles. Cade returned to his original destination - a cyber café across from the Malecón. “Una caña de Cristal, porfa,” he ordered a taste of local ale. “Baño?” The uninterested proprietor gave Cade a strange look and motioned to the back as he returned to reading the worthless state-run Granma newspaper and took another hit of a Cohiba. A ceiling fan barely circulated enough air to stir the thick aromatic clouds of billowy smoke. Yuck, disgusting, Cade thought. The former track star, winner of multiple awards for the 4 x 400 relay and 5,000 meters, ambled into the shoddy closet-sized room labeled “Señores.” The door wouldn’t lock, so he removed the lid of the commode anyhow and extended his leg backward to close the door. He inspected the inside contents and noticed the small plastic bag hidden at the bottom of the water tank.
Without thinking, he reached with one hand to retrieve it. The note inside simply read – “Palacio de la Revolución, fiesta, 8pm, 2 days.” Cade loved parties.
Havana Dawn Trailer
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She kneed her attacker in the groin as he cupped her floppy breasts and met his gloved hand gripping a dagger with her stylish red-colored nails. “Frank! Frank!” The two combatants struggled as the sharpened edge moved closer to her throat. Where was Frank?
Barb was not strong enough, especially after that passionate moment, but stuck fingers from her left hand into the eye holes of the mask. Her attacker yelled “you bitch!” She felt the blade from the assailant in total black wardrobe finally slide from one side to another of her throat. The attacker’s soft brown eyes grew to the size of saucers as the knife completed its task.
Then, a half-dressed Frank ran and jumped on his back. The attacker, gripping the knife, turned around and impaled him against the sharp edge of the boulder and hurled three punches into his stomach. The killer rushed him with a knife, but Frank kicked him back with his muscled legs and the intruder fell to the ground dropping the knife somewhere on the sloshy mud beneath their feet. Shit! Frank launched himself in the air and the two rolled around the muddy terrain, over tree roots and fallen limbs from the storm, in a vicious contest of strength.
Frank grabbed the ski mask, but the killer kicked him backwards hitting his head on an overgrown tree root. Then the attacker landed a left hook to his chin and delivered a flurry of swift blows to Frank’s stomach leaving him bent over on his side gasping for air.
The masked attacker scampered back to the Jeep, stumbled over a fallen tree branch, losing his balance, and falling down. His wallet spilled onto the wet park ground, but he grabbed it and made his escape. _____
“Comrades, tonight was an important victory for Cuba and total defeat for the American pigs who plotted yet again to destroy our beloved Revolución,” Comandante Arroyo crowed addressing a carefully-selected group of Avispas Negras at a hastily-arranged conference room in his command compound on Live Cuban TV. Arroyo, with his Makarov pistol proudly holstered on his right side, stuck up two fingers in a V-sign.
“Even as I speak, the traitors and their American pig conspirators are being rounded up. Here is my promise to you, comrades. Cuba will repay the American scoundrels. I guarantee these cowardly acts will not go unpunished. Socialismo o muerte! Socialismo o muerte!” The assembled crowd of soldiers and apparatchiks joined and amplified the chant to fill the hall.
Arroyo lingered to bask in the glory with the guests – always the gracious host – while Interior Minister Juanjo Raúl Lazlo paced the floor with hands behind his back as he patiently waited for Arroyo in an adjoining office. Thankfully, he thought, his great comrade Arroyo, a Beijing-educated geologist, made much shorter pronouncements than previous Comandantes.
Havana Dawn Trailer
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When Frank finally arrived, Barbra straddled a large rock and had taken off her blouse and bra running through the park woods. He ran up to her and immediately cupped her breasts and pulled down her pink silk panties.
“Ravage me, Frank,” she called out as his lips focused on her sending pulsating vibrations through her body.
She savored the silky air from the now heavier rain splattering from the tree tops over them, the smell of moistening trees, and the rumble of thunder above. Barbra quickly loosened his workpants and fished for his member, feeling a patch of bush. She kissed her way down his smooth, toned gym abs through his T-shirt and swallowed his stiff member all the first time. Frank had never experienced that since college.
“Get naked, Frank!” she commanded, while moaning and coming up for air. The raven-haired medium-build 6 foot tall former basketball star forward at Maryland slid out of his remaining clothes. After a few minutes of savoring his sausage, the 5 foot 3 inches nymph stood up again and turned her bare backside to him. From behind he caressed and licked her velvet ivory skin and fondled her forbidden zone between her legs. “Oooh, Fraaank.”
Completely hard and desirous of her body, he bent Barbra over the rock and teased her from behind with his medium-sized member. Barbra didn’t care about his size at that point though she preferred larger men. She spread her legs for him and awaited her prize.
As Frank eagerly entered her after applying a condom, the uninvited guest driving the Jeep crept ever closer to the party and watched them intently. The soaked ground muffled any broken limbs that might be trampled on and crack and thus alert the couple dallying in the storm. Frank obviously came quickly and surprisingly soon disappeared leaving Barbra to rest on top the boulder.
The burly figure leaped from the edge of the obscure knot of bushes with an object in hand which appeared pale in the moonless conditions.
“Frank, you want more of me so soon?” Barbra cooed laughing and flipping back her long tail of hair which stopped midway above her buttocks. She tossed her head from side to side in anticipation of another round.
She felt a different touch and turned around. Terror showed in her eyes as the masked marauder gripped her voluptuous body and covered her mouth so she could not scream. A rush of self-preservation and her training kicked in.
Read parts 9 and 10 of our serialization of the first chapter of Havana Dawn, my debut international espionage thriller. Read the next series of two parts right here every two days.
“Vance, we already have numerous defense systems capable of protecting the Homeland. Do your homework! I want to assure every American tonight that their safety is first and foremost in my mind as Commander-in-Chief.”
Belling decided to attack and skip the role of victim using the “damsel in distress” defense when a man questioned her, a favorite tactic when asked an unpleasant (read difficult) question. Belling had been around the block and always gave more than her critics could handle.
“What Vance really is mad about is that his stock in Wetherford Electronics. Wetherford is a key supplier for the Zeptran-A Laser project. He’s just worried he may not get richer than he already is.
"So, Vance, you see, we do need to invest wisely in our people. This is not about making your buddies, fat cat defense contractors, and you rich from sucking on the government teat. I’ll make sure the Zeptran-A Laser project does not get funded beyond this budget year.
“I challenge you, Vance, to sell all of your stock in defense contractors because you have a conflict interest pushing more defense spending which you will profit from!”
Vance Bimbaugh looked down at his dais and shuffled his papers and tried to appear unruffled from Belling’s tongue lashing.
A rising roar of applause broke out in the audience. Candy allowed it for a couple of minutes, but she wanted more camera time, too. “Ok, folks. Please hold your applause until after the debate.
"Mr. Bimbaugh, can we get your promise here tonight to sell your stock in defense contractors?”
“Candy, are you an advocate for the Belling campaign? You allowed clapping which is against debate rules. You keep cutting me off when I’m midway through my vital points. Look at this, my fellow Americans. Official Washington ganging up on an outsider – me - who threatens their power.
"Candy, you should be ashamed.”
“Fiddlesticks, Mr. Bimbaugh," she retorted casting her narrowing steel blue eyes at the popular radio host turned presidential candidate against his old nemesis for years, President Belling. You could almost see steam flowing from her ears. “So for the record, you did not answer the question. Now, let’s turn to…”
Havana Dawn Trailer
Check out a quick clip on the total scenario of the gripping spy thriller!
“Whoa there, Mrs. Belling!” Vance Bimbaugh exclaimed refusing to show respect by using her title, after she answered a question about the environment. “Do you know how much your crazy proposal is going to cost average Americans? Where is your compassion? We already have too many unemployed because of your failed economic policies.”
“Gas prices are at a record low because of my leadership,” she began to respond pointing her finger at the dais. “Caring for the environment is not crazy. For cleaner air and water, everyone can pitch in, Vance, including you, to fight climate change. You do believe in climate change, right? Or are you a denier despite all of the scientific data staring you in your fah- uh – face.”
“Climate change is shi-, uh, baloney. This is an example of masked politics dressed up as a scientific issue. Pure partisan politics. What you care about is making the central government more powerful to interfere in the lives of Americans who get up every day and work hard to feed their families. As your next president my fellow Americans, I will work day and night to stop making life so difficult –"
“Mr. Bimbaugh,” interrupted Miss Candy Raddish, the official debate moderator, wearing a fake red wig, yellow triangular earrings, with dark horn-rimmed glasses down her snout for a nose looking up to the overweight opponent of President Belling. Smacking her mauve-colored lips, she said, “Your time has expired.”
“I’m going to finish my thought. This is too important for the American people. You have a political party dedicated to pseudo-science which is aiming to –”
“Mr. Bimbaugh, this is not your radio show. Please follow the rules.” She blinked her small eyes at him in total disgust.
“Candy, I’m paying for this microphone. So, please show respect.”
“Vance, calm down,” Belling butted into the spectacle with a deer-in-headlights look. _____
“Listen to me folks. Look at them trying to shut me up. Climate change is an attack on your freedom. To limit your income, the environmental agenda…” “Ok, Mr. Bimbaugh. We got it,” said the moderator. “Mr. Bimbaugh, we must move on. What is your proposal for free education in America?”
“I’m not your Santa Claus,” he snorted. “Work for your own damn education.”
“Oh really,” Belling sighed raising her left eyebrow. Keep digging a deeper hole for yourself.
“Really. This country faces over a $100 trillion unfunded debt liabilities. Who’s going to pay for it – you, Mrs. Belling? You Miss Raddish? Our economy is only about $17 trillion a year, and barely growing because of Belling’s failures. We need to work harder, stronger, and faster to recover from the complete mismanagement by her economic- illiterate crew. We need more startups, more economic freedom, and less know-it-all micromanagement from Washington!”
“My word, Vance. You’re so neurotic. We sure don’t need a shock jock as president.” That’ll tell’em!
“Mrs. Belling, you have not leveled with the American people about the dire danger our country faces from enemies abroad. You have presided over draconian cuts to the defense budget, while playing nice with Cuba, China, Russia – ”
“Mr. Bimbaugh…our topic tonight is domestic politics,” Candy again disrupted Vance’s tirade.
“Candy, Mrs. Belling...the American people..…the #1 job of president, as stated in Article 1 of the Constitution, is to defend that sacred document and the American people. Not free education. No overregulation by the EPA. Mrs. Belling, why are you killing the Zeptran-A Laser which can protect us from an enemy missile attack?”
“Madame President, you don’t have to answer that,” Candy sniffed looking toward the visibly nervous leader of the free world.
Havana Dawn Trailer
Check out a quick clip on the total scenario of the gripping spy thriller!
Read below installments 5 and 6 of our series of the first chapter of Havana Dawn, my debut international spy thriller, serialized right here every two days.
By sampling all of Chapter 1, you get a good feel for the rest of the novel.
Suddenly three ageing BTR-60 armored personnel carriers (APCs) careened into the popular Parque Central rolling over book kiosks and firing their 12.7mm machine guns into the air scattering the meandering tourists and locals alike in all directions. Four olive-green trucks came screeching into the square as two MiG-29 (NATO Codename – Fulcrum) ground attack-fighters screamed overhead. A company of the elite Avispas Negras (“black wasps” in Spanish) troops donning their signature red berets spilled into the park and took up positions at its four corners brimming with their PKM machine guns and ASG-17 grenade launchers. Cade scurried along the broken sidewalk keeping his distance from the military units and dashed to the Gran Teatro de La Habana. He took cover hidden by one of the many stolid stone support columns. The historical theater was an ideal spot to witness the unfolding events. His smooth fingers flicked the switch on the right-side of the glasses to activate the satellite camera of his Ray Bans to transmit the live images to his bosses and colleagues back in Langley, Virginia. “3-2-1 Action!” he spoke into the tiny receiver-recorder in the nose of his glasses. “The Avispas Negras are ready for attack.” One of the MiGs swooped down thundering low over the plaza and fired two Kornet anti-tank missiles. The pilot guided the two lethal missiles with a laser to kill two T-72 tanks just entering a street near the Parque. Then two T-62 tanks burst onto the scene firing their 115mm main guns and mowing down a number of the elite soldiers and obliterating three coffee cafés. Four camouflaged trucks rolled into another side of the Parque and deposited members of the 45th Infantry Division bearing AK-47s, RPG-7s, and 160mm mortars. Cade panned to the heavy armament brought up by the rebel troops. A knot of troops unloaded belt-fed machine guns shooting from behind cover at a distance of fifteen or twenty feet from loyalist forces. Another MiG smashed the T-62 tanks with more rockets as easy as taking candy from a baby. Cade stared awestruck at the destruction wrought by the missiles from the jets, and felt a pain deep in his heart of a lost loved one to a similar circumstance. He tried to shake off the bitter memory, and regain focus of the mission at hand. The molten metal of the crumpled tanks created a stench that began to pervade the Parque as thick choking black clouds of burning oil clouded the natural vision of all. Rapid crossfire and projectiles lit up the advancing dusk and struck almost every building in the square. Cade’s spy glasses allowed him to record and show the whole spectacle to CIA headquarters. The crackle of rifle fire, the thud of mortars, and the roar of grenades plus the booms and flashing lights throughout the park and surrounding streets looked like lightning and sounded like thunder to the untrained ear. A loyalist T-72 and 130mm cannon joined the BTRs and Avispas Negras in a deafening barrage of suppressive fire on the rebel positions, resulting in a huge fireball that swept the part of the square in front of the Teatro.
Chapter 1, Havana Dawn, Excerpt 6
_____ Cade ducked from the heat field that charred nearby book kiosks and fruit stands. “I think that’s it.” Windows crumpled and glass rained down from the ear-shattering explosion. The commandos abandoned their cover positions and brazenly charged emptying their AKMS assault rifles to round up the remaining opposition soldiers. “A source says another puny rebellion outside the capital at the Cienfuegos Army base fizzled as well,” Belinda Cooper chimed in, a veteran manager of Cuban affairs from a conference room on the second floor of the sprawling CIA campus. “Any sign of the Comandante?” asked the owlish CIA Deputy Director of Operations, Brandon Musgrave, tuning into the video feed from his library-like office, reflecting his stuffy professorial days lecturing at Tufts. Cheers and bone-chilling howling rang out from adoring comrades as a medium-build, swarthy, athletic figure in fatigues and red beret with the black, red, and yellow emblem of the Avispas Negras proudly hopped atop one of the APCs. Cade focused his eyes squarely on the forty-ish medium height bearded man emerging from the black smoke from the burning debris and firing his Makarov 9mm sidearm into the air. “I can report that the one-eyed Comandante Julio Fernando Arroyo is still alive and well. That guy has more lives than a stray cat in Brooklyn.” Cade turned off the cam, bent his head down and clenched his right fist in anger. Murdering bastard!
Let's continue with the third and fourth installments of our series of the first chapter of Havana Dawn, my debut international spy thriller, serialized right here every two days.
By sampling all of Chapter 1, you get a good feel for the rest of the novel.
Check out the second scene below. President Emily Belling is preparing backstage for the first debate with her opponent, Vance Bimbaugh.
Belling's re-election is another thread of the plot leading to an exciting finish.
Chapter 1, Havana Dawn, Excerpt 3
“You’re on in five, Emily,” Al Luziano reminded her, another fixture in “Emily World, stuffing his face with double bologna and brie on a hoagie roll, washed down with gulps of diet soda. Few opponents came away unbruised from campaigns he orchestrated.
She repositioned the gold broach on her kelly-green suit from the right to left side and adjusted her black knee-high skirt while tossing her platinum flocks in her mirror. “You look stunning. Go get’em, babe.” Besides Syd, only Al could ever call her “babe.” Not even John tried that. “Madame President,” Camila Ortiz entered the room, her Colombia-born leggy valet with flowing auburn shoulder-length hair with long bangs, a hold-over from the Senate staff. Men turned and watched when Camila passed them in her tight, low-cut fitted dresses that were just business-y enough yet accentuated her boobs. Al checked out her curves without end as embers of lust burned in his eyes.
Everyone knew Emily Belling was headed for the White House. It was just a matter of timing like everything in life. Camila like many twenty-something groupies in Washington could not resist the opium of power and thus served her boss slavishly. “President Lizette Espada of the Philippines on the line.” “Who?” Belling flashed a twisted expression and glazed eyes. “Camila, take a fucking message! Can’t you see I’m busy?” She continued prepping for the TV cameras. The debate TV director appeared in the doorway clutching a clipboard with a pencil behind his ear and gave her the 1-minute warning. The president appeared all smiles – just like a pro who had been at the game of politics ever since becoming sophomore class president at Township High in Evanston, Illinois.
Chapter 1, Havana Dawn, Excerpt 4
_____ The broiling Havana sun started to slink away leaving a pall of darkness in its wake. Cade Forrester savored the welcoming aroma of bubbly black beans, white rice, and roasted chicken wafting from nearby cafés around the park teeming with people, especially couples walking arm and arm. He filled out his white short-sleeved polo, and knee-length grey textured cotton shorts like a fitness model off the catwalk, the ultimate boy-next-door-type. A well-tuned bod was a priority since running track at Georgia Tech – tall, amply chested, sinewy muscled arms, and legs to round off his rock-solid 29-inch waist. The blue-banded white Panama hat atop his super-cropped cut spiky blond hair helped him beat the Havana heat. However, he was not just another gringo turista looking for fun and adventure, well, not that kind of adventure. He adjusted his specially-crafted Ray Bans stepping down from the Capitolio, with a Nikon slung around his neck, and set off in the direction of the Hotel Inglaterra. How cool to use the 4 gig RAM, voice-responsive CPU, and satellite-linked WiFi shades! he thought. Any advantage was indispensable to counter the highly-effective security forces of the tiny island, especially after replacing his close colleague, Esteban Echeverri, who was betrayed just over a month ago. Reopening embassies in Washington and Havana had promised a new chapter of diplomatic relations between the two countries. After the champagne corks popped, the day-to-day new US policy of engagement with Cuba took shape with increased interest in expanding economic ties between the two nations while soft-pedaling political reform. The dictatorship remained. Hopes soon faded of any material change in relations besides lip service from both sides because the ruling clique in Havana gladly accepted the unilateral US concessions and then steadfastly continued its tight grip on the Cuban people in defiance of Washington. President Belling played her cards early in her term by visiting Comandante Julio Fernando Arroyo in Havana and signing the US-Cuban Friendship Agreement – old wine in new bottles – which left a bitter taste in the mouths of the Cuban people who longed for freedom. The cultural and academic exchanges were nice, but Belling hoped to charm Arroyo to thaw relations further. Personal diplomacy rarely achieves more than cheap public relations points which are forgotten like yesterday’s newspaper. Cade glanced at his watch, and started to cross Avenida San Martin when the whir of heavy machinery and burning diesel filled the air.
