Heavy

By T. Rafael Cimino

It's 1980. Civil war's been declared in El Salvador, fifty-two American Hostages are being held captive in the U.S. Embassy in Terrain and Drug smuggler George Jung and his crew are serving out an indefinite sentence in Carcel Sandino, one of the most brutal prisons on the island of Cuba.

After an arranged escape, Jung, his pilot, Ralph Linez, and two others manage to steal a luxury sailing yacht and are soon shipwrecked in Central America. From there, the four enter a 'Fight or Flight' climate of survival with the eventual quest of making it back home to the United States.

George Jung achieved international fame when his life was depicted in the film "Blow" with actor Johnny Depp playing Jung.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T. Rafael Cimino
• Release date: Sep 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781634435963

T. Rafael Cimino

Courtesy of WikipediaT. Rafael Cimino (born Todd Rafael Cimino, June 4th, 1963 Wayne, NJ, USA) is an American novelist and screenwriter. He grew up in Key Largo, Florida in the Florida Keys, attending the Island Christian School in Islamorada, Florida where he graduated from in 1981. He then attended the University of Florida and the Florida Atlantic University where he graduated with a Master’s degree in Naval Architecture. While in South Florida, Cimino was heavily involved in water sports, including offshore powerboat racing. In 1982, Cimino became the youngest competitor to win the coveted APBA (American Powerboat Association) Offshore U. S. National Championship. He later won numerous National and World Championships.Cimino is the son of Peter Cimino and the nephew of American film writer/ director Michael Cimino. He has one daughter, Stephanie Cimino, born in 1987. In April 2010 he married long time girlfriend, Bulgarian prima ballerina, Svetlina Kiryakova.Film CareerWith his experience in ocean powerboat racing, Cimino was hired as the Marine Director for the 1983 feature motion picture “Spring Break” which was filmed on location in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. He went on to join television producer/ director John Nicolella and the production team as a marine director for the 1984 television series “Miami Vice” where he was given the opportunity to write as an adjunct contributor.Cimino’s career in film continued with his contributions to the feature projects, “Lost in Translation”, “A love Song for Bobby Long,” and “The Other Boleyn Girl” where he developed a script style and character arcs for “A list” actress Scarlett Johansson.In 2006 Cimino was given the opportunity to contribute to the television series “Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip” which was created by Arron Sorkin. Cimino continued until the series was cancelled by NBC in May of 2007.In 2009 Cimino signed a five year agreement with Akula Films to produce his novel Table 21 as a feature motion picture. Cimino is also affiliated with Miramax Films, Nu Image/ Millennium Films and the Nu Boyana Film Studios in Sofia, Bulgaria.FilmographySpring Break (1983)Marine DirectorLost in Translation (2002)Contributing Writer/ ProducerA Love Song for Bobby Long (2005)Contributing Writer/ ProducerThe Other Boleyn Girl (2008)Contributing Writer/ Associate ProducerTable 21 (Pre production 2010)Writer/ ProducerMid Ocean (Pre production 2010)Writer/ ProducerTelevisionMiami Vice (1984 – 1989)Writer/ Marine DirectorStudio 60 on the Sunset Strip (2006-2007)Contributing WriterPublishingIn 2009 Cimino published Mid Ocean, his first novel, to critical acclaim. The New York Times described Mid Ocean as “Miami Vice meets Goodfellas” referencing Cimino’s earlier work and the iconic Martin Scorsese mob ensemble thriller. Cimino also penned the novels Table 21 and River Town. In 2011 he is scheduled to release Delta Echo Alpha as a sequel to Mid Ocean.Political ActivismIn 2004 Cimino joined the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) where he serves as an executive member. In 2008 he joined the Democratic campaign to elect Barack Obama President of the United States. It was here that he served as a member of the campaign’s subcommittee for healthcare policy development. In 2010 Cimino, along with a series of Hollywood “A listers,” founded the PendulumPost.com, a political debate and policy blog.

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Chapter One

Some might've used words like muggy, sticky, dank, clammy or humid. To us, the air felt like we were swimming in glue. The kind you lick on the back of a postage stamp with a stale taste that could reside in your mouth for an hour or more. The climate was unusually still and wet; at least for this time of year – early march – the Caribbean breezes were usually more forgiving. It was technically late winter. Not yet spring. The climate of our isolated Island didn’t follow the rules of the Yanks, ninety miles to the north though. This was Cuba and not much of this place followed any rules.

Despite the humidity, the small North coast town of Sandino was a postcard setting. Glossy – untouched – ubiquitous in its own beauty. For a select few, this was the jewel of the basin. Those who could peel back the layers of political strife enjoyed miles of pristine beaches, living reefs and an unusual freedom that was unique to the Island and a paradox for those who just didn’t understand. Unfortunately freedom was in short supply at 'Carcel De Sandino,' the prison that was etched into the side of the area’s largest hill, a cliff side of coral rock and impotent bush growth.

It was constructed in the late 1800’s as a fortress to ward off the threats from Mexico, the United States and beyond. Hand cut blocks of coral were excavated from the south shore some seventy miles away. Each block was carried by wooden mule cart through dense growth and narrow goat trails with a single load taking as many as three days to complete. In Sandino each block was laid precisely, creating a castle like structure that looked more like the military fortress it was designed to be than the correctional facility it eventually became. Over the years crude appointments were added. A patchwork of cement floors appeared to be poured a yard at a time – a quilt - various shades of gray with inlaid stone and more coral rock. In the fifties primitive iron bars were added to replace the original metal work that had rusted after years of contact with the sunbaked corrosive salt air. Shafts of construction grade number-five steel were driven into the coral blocks and more cement was slapped into place with the articulate skill of a five year old. From a distance Carcel Sandino was an architectural work of art. Up close, it was a sloppy mess of crude after-thoughts piled one atop another.

Because of its elevation, their home was a dungeon penthouse. Dark, muddy and wet. The patchwork floors were covered with years of dirt that looked more like burnt coffee grounds, and the walls were surfaced with twenty layers of paint that were now chips, peeling in the heat. The cell was eight by eight feet square with a hole in the corner that served as our toilet. With three of us, there was one bed and barely enough room for the other two to stretch out and sleep. Fortunately we had the run of the halls during the day, giving us enough room to stretch our legs. Our window was a small eighteen-inch half circle cut into the block with more strands of crooked number five rebar. Redundant since no one in their right mind would try to squeeze though this porthole – and to what. There was a sixty-foot drop below and more cliffs beyond that. At the base, crystal turquoise water lapped over a snow-white beach and cliffs of more coral rock. Had this site been developed as a Hilton or a Marriott it would have been a five star location by anyone’s standards.

All things considered, we had it pretty good. Our cause was not political, it was financial; an unpaid toll. Still, at night we could hear the screams from the brave young idealists who dared to speak against Castro, the Island regime and communism in general. They all eventually went silent - either to sleep or worse. Truth be known, those in power wanted us back at work, paying them their toll and flooding the U.S. with more cocaine. More social degradation and more of the Yanks economy shifted to Castro’s friends down south. 'Our' friends down south.

On the windowsill was an old transistor radio. In between waves of crashing static, the faint signal from Miami belted out Leo Sayer’s ‘You Make Me Feel Like Dancing.’ Del banged on the side of the radio, just in time to get a swatch of news from a WQAM disc jockey with a raspy soulful voice. At thirty-two, Del’s clothes said it all. Worn out jeans, caked with dirt, well-used cowboy boots and a bright yellow tee shirt with shit-brown iron-on letters that spelled 'Carcel Sandino.'

And it’s day 168 of the Iran hostage standoff. Do you have your official WQAM yellow ribbon? Get one at any participating… The DJ said before a blanket of white noise cut off his words.

Aye Pinga! Del yelled as he banged the side of the radio, knocking it to the ground. It landed, crashing next to a nine-inch gecko that scurried for cover as a pair of rusty D-cell batteries rolled across the mud floor.

What the hell did you have to go and do that for? Ralph objected. Ralph Linez was our crew’s pilot. A tough guy who earned his wings flying everything from single engine piper cubs in the bush to C-130’s for the Air Force. He was also Cuban, although he and his family had left the island nation during the Batista regime in the sixties. Ralph was my right arm. A thoroughly talented man who could see around corners and, more times than not, served as my sextant, keeping me on track, focused and where I needed to be - in the moment - smart and relevant. Unfortunately there was tension between Ralph and Del. Peter Del Delgado was not part of our crew. He came with the cell and from what we could tell, was a regular in Carcel Sandino. Del’s crimes were comprised of petty thefts and one stolen jeep from Guantanamo, a base shuttle that was occupied by a ranking Naval Commander. After dropping the base’s C.O. off at one of the east end’s most notorious cathouses, Del headed west. Four days later he was picked up at a roadblock in Pinar Del Rio, wearing an American Naval uniform that was two sizes too big. Del tried to talk his way out of capture but his thick Cuban accent was too much for the road officers to discount. He was sentenced to only nine months after being awarded some time off for striking a black eye to the Yanks on the opposite end of the Island.

Del pulled an old cigar out of a back pocket sown into his dirty jeans, put the tip in his mouth and bit off a plug.

God that’s disgusting. Ralph said as I entered the cell behind them.

Whatchyou got agains’ tobacco man! Del answered.

Never mind.

No fly boy. What jou got agains’ my chew?

It’s nasty is all. You sleep on this floor. Your jeans are caked with dirt. I’d hate to see that cigar under a microscope. I’ll post money it’s loaded with all kinds of bacteria.

Whatchjou talking ‘bout? Speak Ingles man.

"Oh! That’s classic. Really Del?

Gentlemen! Relax, I said. My Boston accent had a calming effect on both of them I guess. They froze in place. I had been out for a stroll. My three hundred yards of exercise was a simple hike through the prison corridors. As temporary guests of the Castro Hilton we were afforded extra privileges. Open cells during the day and one meal of dried out black beans with rice a night. All things considered, it was a stark contrast to our last stop.

Tranquilandia was another island of sorts; an oasis in the middle of the Colombian Jungles. In all, the complex sprawled over one hundred and fifty acres. Rows of commercial metal buildings were erected and shared the property with a wide variety of other structures that housed everything from a five star gourmet restaurant to a fully functioning brothel. From Bogotá and Rio, fresh supplies of the most sensual women in the region were flown in every week. Of everything visitors remembered of this sweet spot, the private house of ill repute topped the list with its bubbling hot tubs and kidney shaped swimming pool filled with beautiful tan breasted women. Some with tan lines. Some without. This was a remote heaven and an opiate for the stress that every visitor encountered as a result of the business we had all entered willingly.

A fifty-five hundred foot paved runway bisected the compound with constant air traffic, both in and out. On the North end was the main hangar, a thirty thousand foot building with large sliding doors and a center span height of four stories. Inside, rows of bright mercury vapor lights illuminated the high-gloss epoxy coated floors where polished aircraft were parked. Uniformed mechanics preformed tedious maintenance procedures to Cessnas, Pipers, Beechcrafts and one particular Lear Jet with its own red carpet that stayed stowed on board and was ceremoniously rolled out for the royalty that boarded and departed her over-decorated cabin of eight leather recliners and plush oriental rugs that covered the flight deck.

Tranquilandia was the brainchild of Pablo Escobar himself. Some thought that it was created as an exclusive refuge from his wife, a nagging soul who tormented him regularly. Others speculated she would end up dead one day with one swipe from Pablo. King Henry could then be on to the next without any encumbrances. Maybe it was an attribute to him that she survived as long as she did. Relatively speaking of course. Still, Pablo had a new mistress; one he'd fathered two children with. Her days were numbered. And for the meantime this complex in the Jungle appeased his other wandering desires and allowed him to maintain an enforcing presence over this highly traveled intersection and vital conduit for the flow of contraband into the United States.

Apart from the brothel and the four star restaurant and the epoxy coated floors and the red carpets and the pristine Learjet parked front and center under rows of buzzing mercury vapor lamps – apart from all of this, neatly stacked bricks of cocaine stood in columns, stored in the other metal buildings, ready to be shipped around North America, like packages from a UPS distribution facility at Christmas time.

It was exactly three weeks ago. Ralph and I were tying down our load in the stripped out cabin of his Cessna 410, a beast of an airplane. Twin high performance engines, full avionics, and long-range fuel cells – the works. My hands looked like shriveled prunes; a casualty of the hot tubs. Ralph’s skin was dry. He had spent the time here fixing an oil leak on our left engine. It wasn’t the repairs though that kept him from the brothels. If Ralphie was one thing, he was loyal and the bulk of his devotion belonged to a young lady back in Miami named Amy Rea, his wife of four years and the mother of their twin baby girls who were born three months before.

The metallic sound filled the cabin. Click – Click - Click. With the last ratchet strap snug in place, our load of 642 kilos was secure. And that’s when it happened. The vibrations from the horizon were the first indication something was wrong. As people started to run and yell we realized it was time to depart and do so as rapidly as possible. Like a swarm of bees, the distant sky grew dark with approaching aircraft. Bell Hueys, A-10 Warthogs, and low flying Phantom F-4's. All black and all American. They were part of the dark-ops, a Latin American invasion that wasn’t supposed to exist.

Ralph jumped into the cockpit and started the preflight check as I hustled around the wings, retrieving the wheel chocks. By the time I climbed next to him, shut the door and buckled my seatbelt an incoming rocket from one of the A-10 whistled close, slamming into one of the metal buildings a few hundred yards behind us. The thrust from the explosion rocked our plane like a blast of thermal turbulence at ten thousand feet. The immediate problem though - we were still on the ground. With both engines spinning we didn’t have time to finish our preflight routine. The strip was in sight, so our taxi was fast and direct as we cut across an open field toward the pavement. Another blast rocked the field from the opposite end of the metal buildings. More turbulence. More smoke, fire and debris headed skyward.

Hold on! Ralph yelled as the tires screeched in a tight turn over the asphalt. We headed onto the main strip and he pegged the throttles forward. Like a dragster on the green light, both of us were pressed to the backs of our seats. Even with an extra fourteen hundred pounds – we were heavy – the 410 had enormous amounts of power.

Come on baby.. I said to myself. My lower lip quivered under the pressure. This was going to be tight.

From behind us another blast ignited the pavement with Napalm. Its gasoline like coverage engulfed the pavement. Orange shards of light reflected from the glossy instruments on our planes dash.

Shit! Are they firing at us? Ralph asked.

That was close. It was almost a blessing though. The heat gave us enough of a boost and we were airborne.

Gear! Flaps! Ralph barked. My fingers worked quickly. This was a routine I had down pat over the years as his ever-qualified co-pilot. With the whine of the hydraulics we went wheels-up and our landing gear folded into the planes belly. Like a rocket we bolted skyward gaining four thousand feet a minute. I looked back just in time to see the last building go up. With widespread balls of orange and black it was all gone. Blown into another world by the Yanks and their passion for high order explosives. Ralph and I looked at each other as if to say, what now? Without thinking twice we set a quick course for South Florida. From there we could plan our next move.

Six hours later the light came on. Orange at first and then red. Our left engine was losing oil pressure. This was the same engine Ralph had worked on back at Tranquilandia. Little did I know that within the limited supply of aircraft parts, the facility’s cache didn’t have the exact specified oil filter gasket we needed for the Cessna 410. Out of desperation Ralph had made his own from a raw sheet of cork like material. The homemade version lasted as long as it could before the pressure bore a hole to the outside and a stream of oil soon followed. As the supply dwindled so did the life of our left engine. At eight thousand feet and over the open ocean we were in trouble and had to do something fast. Our course for a private grass strip at the intersection of State road 84 and U.S. Highway 27 in Broward County Florida was diverted. A shortwave radio call was put out to one of our people in Cuba and we banked our course to the east. Unfortunately ground arrangements were not properly paid for and, as we started trailing black smoke, a Cuban Mig spotted our troubled plane. Via radio, the order was given to land or be shot down. Thirty minutes later we were on the ground in Sandino, surrounded by Cuban troops and wearing handcuffs.

That was three weeks ago.

The party’s on boys. I announced.

What? We’re getting out? Del blurted.

A little louder Del. I don’t think the whole prison heard you. Ralph said as he headed for the small porthole, looking down to Guardina Bay just in time to see a fifty-eight foot sailing yacht idle into the protected anchorage.

Asshole, Del mumbled back.

The plan was simple but required the use of our man who was on the outside. The same guy who muffled the landing arrangements three weeks before. Coop was part of our crew. He’d been visiting his grandmother in the hills south of Havana when all of this started and it was just our luck – or the lack of it – that he was in a position to get us out of here. Two thousand in American cash was to be paid to Miguel, a scruffy guard who had looked over us for the last three weeks. He was a good soul although a bit rough around the edges, with his large potbelly and blanched beard. The head chef would deposit a key in the night’s ration of arroz con fejoli. Since all the cell doors were locked at sunset this key would get us into the hall.

With two hours of daylight left, I peered through the half-circle porthole. The sailing yacht was still jockeying for position as an over-anxious captain yelled at the mate on the bow, undoubtedly his wife while she tried to set the anchor. As the aft of the glistening yacht pivoted toward us, the transom came into view. An oversized Union Jack fluttered proudly over the vessel’s name, 'EROS – Georgetown, Grand Cayman.'

I took a minute to use a broken piece of the transistor radio to etch a memento into the cell wall. A message for future occupants. 'JUNG WAS HERE.' That's me. Jung. George Jung - called Boston George by many because I originally hailed from Northeastern Massachusetts. I've been in and out of prison most of my adult life for one drug trafficking charge or another. This stint in Cuba was but a minor blip on a lifelong timeline of erratic peaks and valleys. Despite these setbacks Ralph, Coop, the newcomer, Del and myself were getting out.

Chapter two

Eric Cooper Lanski – Coop – stood in an enclave of carved out coral rock. It was the staff-entrance on the north side of the Sandino complex. Before him was a large door constructed of hand milled timbers. Eight to be exact. All were bound together with pieces of rusty steel bar stock. He knocked and a few seconds later it opened. An envelope of a hundred crisp $ 20 bills was passed to a plump, tanned hand and the transaction was over.

Coop was our wildcard. He was a good kid who had just celebrated his twenty first birthday. A dual resident of Cuba and the U.S. with diplomatic ties, he was orphaned to his maternal grandmother at the age of twelve. A horrific accident on the outskirts of Havana had killed his parents and older sister. He survived by a thread but not without a series of scars, some of which ran very deep. Contrary to popular perception, the healthcare system in Cuba was fairly advanced. Coop regained consciousness in a Havana hospital after a seven-week coma, awaking to his waiting grandmother. She was a former Ambassador to the United Nations and had the political connections to get him the best care on the island. When all was said and done he ended up with a closed head injury. This condition left him with traumatic epilepsy and a profound stutter that caused him to trip over his D’s. As hard as he tried; the years of speech therapists and teachers, he could not master the perfect D. Despite his obvious limitations though – and some that weren’t so obvious – his heart was in the right place, abroad and at home. He routinely spent every other month in Fort Lauderdale. His ability to travel back-and-forth ended up being an asset we took full advantage of. When Coop was in the States he was by our side. He loved the action, but more, he loved the cash that action earned him.

It was forty-five minutes after the exchange of American money when the sun began to set to the west. As usual, the heat over the gulf produced a grand show. Brilliant rays of orange, pink and purple blasted through towering thunderheads that seemed to float effortlessly over the distant Mexican waters. As the streets went dark, Coop made his way with a case of Brazilian beer under one arm and a forty-something prostitute under the other. She was part of the deal and had already gotten a head start on the night. She was already thick tonged, blending her Spanish, as sentences became long multi-syllable words. Again, he knocked on the timber door and again it opened – fully this time - as the two slipped inside and past the thick coral block walls of the prison.

We waited patiently. In the light of the setting sun the Eros’s crew of two climbed down into the yachts’ tender, a small ten-foot zodiac raft with a six-horsepower Mercury outboard engine. They were both in their early fifties and dressed provocatively. He wore leather chaps and a matching leather vest. She was easily thirty pounds overweight and had squeezed into a leather bustier and a pair of cut-off daisy duke jean shorts. Besides being known for its fortress of a prison, the village of Sandino also had a reputation for hosting some of the most prolific swinger parties in the basin. Of course, we knew this already. We also knew they would come and we knew the yacht would be vacant for the next several hours. Intelligence was one of Coop’s gifts.

As we watched the inflatable zodiac tender motor to the beach the sound of footsteps from heavy leather boots interrupted us from behind. It was Miguel, the benevolent prison guard with our dinner. Arroz con fajoli negro, rice and black beans. The Arroz – a little browner than normal. That might not have been a bad thing. Miguel looked at us and with a kind smile, bowing, as if to say, 'good luck my friends - oh - and thanks for the two grand.' As soon as he disappeared down the hall I started fishing. My fingers sifted through the brown rice and black beans until–

There you are. I announced as a rusty key appeared between my right thumb and index finger.

The three of us huddled around the steel barred door as we heard another set of steps approach. These were softer and possibly rubber soled.

Hey Guys. Coop blurted.

Cooper! What the hell are you doing up here? You were supposed to wait downstairs. I whispered, already frustrated that things were deviating from our original plan.

It’s cool George. Coast is clear. Coop said confidently. We inserted the key, held our breath and unlocked the door. With rust grinding on rust, it creaked as Del pushed it open.

Careful! Ralph whispered. You want to announce that we’ve got an open door up here?

Relax bro Del defended.

Harmony you two. Let’s go I led the way as we left our cell and walked down the long corridor, I couldn't help but notice two fellow prisoners standing, watching us with their hands on the bars. They were in their sixties and both had shoulder length hair, similar to my own. It made me stop and take in the resemblance and wonder what it would be like to live this kind of