A Dozen Shorts

By J. H. Bográn

This edition collects some new and some previously published short stories from international author J. H. Bográn.

It showcases a myriad of characters on both sides of the law, from rogue FBI agents, to professional assassins, and everyday men and women facing impossible odds. One thing is certain, they will leave readers stirred, not shaken.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. H. Bográn
• Release date: Nov 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310096280

J. H. Bográn

José H. Bográn is the internationally published author of novels, short stories, and scripts for film, plays, and television. Although he’s the son of a journalist, he ironically prefers to write fiction rather than fact. José's genre of choice is thrillers, but he likes to throw in a twist of romance into the mix.He serves as the Assistant Editor for The Big Thrill, and writes the occasional book review for The Washington Independent Review of Books.In his native Spanish, he’s collaborated in three 20-episode TV serials for domestic broadcasting, and has penned several screenplays; the latest one for the film 11 Cipotes, which was an early contender for the 2016 Oscars in the Foreign Film category.He’s a member of the Crime Writers of Color, Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, Short Mystery Fiction Society, and the International Thriller Writers.

Book preview

A

DOZEN

SHORTS

By J. H. Bográn

Copyright Information

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents in this work are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2013 by J. H. Bográn

Copyright Second Edition 2018 by J. H. Bográn

Cover Design by Littera Book Design

All rights reserved under international and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means now known or hereafter invented, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Earlier versions of some of the stories appeared in following magazines: Garbled Transmissions, Short-Store.Me! & Powder Flash.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Well, hello Dear Reader! Thank you for acquiring this short story collection. I hope you can sit back and relax while enjoying the repertoire I’ve prepared just for you.

There is an ulterior motive for naming the collection A Dozen Shorts. You see, for over twenty years I’ve working in the garment manufacturing industry in my country. The vast majority of that production has been exported to Honduras’s major commercial partner, the Unites States of America. My experience has covered almost every type of clothing, from men’s underwear to lingerie, from tank tops to polo shirts, from twill pants to denim jackets.

Maybe you see the reason already, maybe not. A Dozen Shorts has an amalgamation of different meanings for me. On the one side, it states—in quite a prosaic way—what you are getting. But on the other hand, it’s a game on the words as here’s me, the eternal "production guy," inevitably exporting yet another dozen of shorts.

Cheers!

CHAPTER 1

STEALING THE BAND

Cuba, summer of 1973

This mission shall make the world a better place, or so that’s how CIA master spy convinced Ivan to do it. The balance of power must be kept. They’ve been saying the same lines since the end of World War II, and what do they have to show for it after thirty years? Not a damn thing.

Codenamed The Band, the sub was a flat oval-shaped two-seater that could sneak into the coast of the United States. To prove the sub’s skills, they had painted it a hard-to-hide bright yellow. According to the techs, the machine looked like a stingray when underwater, albeit a huge one. Stingray. Now that was a codename, not Band. But hell, if those mad technicians were right, the thing was so small and maneuverable it could swim up the Potomac River and fire a missile at the White House from spitting distance.

Band on the run, said Alyona in the P.A. system.

Ivan looked up from his post where he monitored the sub’s fuel levels. The control room was a big square with high ceilings. The far wall at the front showed a blown-up map of Cuba and the southernmost part of the Florida peninsula. A red line marked the path Band had to follow today, just a quick run back and forth to Key West. The officer in charge of updating the map moved the scaled version of the Band from the Havana coast and inched it away across the first leg of the journey.

There were four lines of five workstations each. They received a direct radio feed and telemetry from the boat and monitored all: trajectory, fuel consumption, speed. Ivan’s station was the last one, not that they thought fuel was the least of their worries, but it sure comes second when carrying a live nuclear device, no matter how small, the nuke got priority.

The room’s usual loud environment had quieted down to whispers. Even the regular beeps, whines, and chirps of the electronic equipment were more distinct now. Computers were loud machines. Why couldn’t they make them purr?

Alyona broke the silence again with another update. Band will go into radio silence in two minutes. Two minutes for radio silence.

Ivan checked the gauges on his work station and did a fast calculation. The sub would take about forty-five minutes to reach Key West, circle around and reach one predetermined spot near the A1 highway and break to the surface. A Soviet agent posted there will take photographs, proof to the politicians that the ruse had achieved its goals. The return trip would be longer due to the currents. All summed up, he’d be in his chair for at least another two hours. No bathroom breaks. Nobody dared to take breaks during such trials. Also the sub’s fuel supply would be more than enough.

The CIA had recruited him right out of high school. They said his ability to learn new languages had brought him to their attention, but he thought it also had to do with his ability to act on a stage. Turns out, the school’s theater coach had recommended him. He had done three tours of Moscow. Each time he had gotten a separate set of documents to prove his identity, backgrounds, and even standing with the Communist Party. He didn't know how the CIA pulled it off, but his documents were authentic. He had plenty of time to compare them with his mates and they would pass every inspection. The first two missions were mostly reconnaissance of the typical soviet style of living. He had been assigned to Moscow to live on the good graces of the coupons he received from the Government, that meant he had gone bed with an empty stomach more than a few nights. Maybe they were preparing him to look the part of a career officer who wouldn’t have to fake the look of starvation in his past.

He had just gotten back from the U.S.R.R. when they turned him around. This time shipped him off with documents proving him to be Ivan Petrov, and right away he had been moved to Cuba to work on the development of The Band. According to his file, he had experience calculating fuel consumption and elapsed time in such demanding area as space travel. Cosmonauts were in vogue since the American lunar landing six years before.

He had worked in Cuba the past six months. The previous day he had received his final directive: steal the damn vessel and come home. The last part of the message came garbled. He worried he was missing something important, but couldn't get back and ask without endangering his cover. Important bits were always at the top of the message while supplement information came at the end, so he calculated he wasn't missing any important. He had a small two-way radio secreted into a book. He had been ordered to get rid of it, but instead of destroying it, Ivan took out several pieces to damage its function, and then hid it into the room of another person. He figured his room would be searched after it became clear he had stolen the submarine, so hiding the radio would buy him some time by creating doubts and misdirection.

Alyona informed the start of the radio silence, then settled to mark the time every five minutes. The map got updated every time her alluring voice sounded. She was tall, and her heavy breasts had not diminished under the rigors of the uniformed life. In a word, voluptuous. It had taken all of four months to charm her. The competition was deadly, but Ivan prevailed. It took a special skill to woo a beautiful woman. Ivan was not skilled at all, but he was gentle, not bad looking, and above all, he treated her as a person and not an object. They said people are more honest after sex. There may be some truth to it. He hadn’t told Alyona he was a spy, but asked her to escape with him as they shared a cigarette. Awful stuff! He couldn’t wait to return to the U.S. and get some Camels. But first they had to steal a boat.

He felt the weight of a hand dropped on his shoulder. How are we doing, Ivan? Is the Band going to make it back?

The deep-throaty voiced belonged to Eleanor Smith. A lonely but super intelligent woman who migrated from Britain to the Soviet Union thinking the communists will respect her for her brain and not her tits. Mother Russian welcomed her with open arms and an open deep pocket to fund her projects, at least one of them. The sub was her design, her baby.

The band has ample supply, Major Smith. The Soviets also gave her a military rank.

Good. You stare at Comrade Alyona too long instead of at your fuel levels, she whispered.

Um, no Major, I don’t do that.

Then I suggest you stop blushing.

He lowered his gaze back to his console. No point in arguing. It was not a formal reprimand or Major Smith would have made sure it got to his records. Ivan just needed to survive the rest of the day.

The hours ticked away with turtle speed. Ivan sweated despite the cool air conditioner. His hands had a slight tremor when he typed. He blamed the adrenaline. Finally, the Alyona announced the return of the vessel to the Cuban station.

The mission was a success, announced Major Smith and the rows of officers responded with a loud cheer. Now, the time to celebrate has arrived. The superiors sent the finest vodka for just this occasion.

They cheered even higher. Ivan didn’t know about the celebration, but welcomed the news. It’d give the crew a distraction so he and Alyona could sneak into the bay to steal the Band. People would assume they had