When I think of spy stories, I think of stories set during the Cold War. I grew up reading those stories, because I grew up during the Cold War. But those stories were always filled with grim-faced men in suits, having conversations about things that I (as a younger person) barely understood. The action happened toward the end and usually involved dark, rain-filled streets, and lots of diving in and out of doorways.

Tonya D. Price’s story, “Spy in the Sky,” is set during the Cold War, and the story does have its share of grim-faced men. But there’s also a lot of sunshine and an unexpected protagonist and a lot of historical accuracy.

Tonya has written for Fiction River before. She has several stories upcoming, and you’ll find more of her work in Fiction River: Hidden in Crime. Her short fiction has also appeared in a variety of anthologies and genres. Tonya has an MBA from Cornell University and is also the author of the nonfiction book series, Business Books for Writers (www.BusinessBooksForWriters.com). Her most recent publication released in April 2018 is Completing the Writer’s To-Do List. 

For “Spy in the Sky,” Tonya channeled her childhood. In 1962 Tonya lived a mile from Wright Patterson Air Force Base. She spent 12 days in her basement with her mother, brother, and four neighborhood families during the Cuban Missile Crisis while the military fathers stayed on base. As a civilian, only Tonya's father could return home in the evening.

She writes, “We have a short memory when it comes to history. This story is a reminder of those days in hopes our children are never forced to relive them.”

October 19, 1962

Sixteen-year-old Roberto MacAllister threw the first punch, catching his classmate square in the jaw. The bully fell like a sack of cane to the floor. The crowd of St. Mary’s schoolboys pushed each other to get out of the narrow hallway as the bell rang for the second class. Footsteps sounded like a stampeding herd of cattle on the tile floors.

Stefano grabbed Roberto by the arm. “Run. Quick, before the priests catch you.”

Roberto was small but fast. He ran out the front door into the midday sun. Shouts from inside the school called his name. Despite the heat, Roberto raced across Jose Marti Avenue, then cut between two Royal Palm trees lining Jose Marti Avenue. Two years ago, on the first anniversary of Batista fleeing Cuba, Roberto’s father had run into the jungle in hopes of escaping Castro’s Directorate of Intelligence. There was no disgrace in fearing the DI, his father had told him. It was just being smart.

Roberto circled the roots of three mangrove trees along La Sagua Rio then risked a quick look back toward the center of town. He saw no sign of Michael or Father Pedro. Roberto didn’t feel very smart.

He feared capture. Fidel was big on education. The PNR policemen dealt with truants with cane beatings. Roberto had tangled with them once before when he ran away from the boarding school. As the son of an executed traitor, he risked much worse than a beating if the police caught him skipping classes.

He should have known better than to throw a punch at Michael, whose father commanded the local Defense of the Revolution Committee in Sagua La Grande. Michael’s beatings would have been nothing compared to what might await Roberto if jailed. He should have held his temper in check. This weekend, he was supposed to find out if he could fly to Miami with three other boys as part of Operation Peter Pan. Father Pedro described it this way, You will be safe in Florida. You already know everything I can teach you about rockets. There you will learn much more. The path to your dreams does not lie in Cuba, my son.

Now, he might have lost the chance to go to America. His mother would be so disappointed. All she talked about was getting him to freedom. If he missed the plane, he would never fulfill his promise to his father to go to MIT. Roberto would be forced to live his entire life in Cuba as the son of a traitor.

Wiping the sweat off his face with his blue school bandana, he loosened his tie and rested a moment. Sweat made his arms stick in the sleeves of his school jacket and shirt. He pulled them off along with his shoes and stuffed them into his backpack. Shirtless and barefoot, he wouldn’t look like a schoolboy, but blend in with the niño callejero. The orphans who lived on the streets knew him. He often gave them food. They would not betray him.

The heat of the October sun on his bare back took the strength from Roberto’s legs. He left the path along the river and walked east into the forest. He knew these woods. He would be safe here. But for how long?

Fear kept him going, but after climbing the lime cliffs outside of town, he stopped to rest. From this point, he could look over the forest to the south or see the Bay of Sagua La Grande to the north. If any of the Revolution Committee followed him, he would be able to see them before they saw him.

Lured by the midday heat and his long hike, Roberto fell asleep under the shade of a cedar tree.

A sharp pain in his side woke him with a start.

“Vstavay.”

Roberto shielded his eyes from the sun. Two blonde men stood in front of him. They wore checkered shirts like common farm workers, but he had no idea what they had just said. He did recognize the language: Russian.

“Auf standen.” The man kicked him and pointed a rifle at Roberto’s head.

“Spanish, not German. Speak Spanish,” the second man said, in Roberto’s own language.

The first man sighed, and in broken Castilian Spanish he motioned with the tip of his rifle. “Standing up.”

The second man, who stood as tall as the first man, had a face burned so red Roberto thought he must be in pain. The second man held a calculator and a notebook, not a rifle. In perfect Castilian Spanish he asked, “What are you doing here?”

Roberto stood. “I got into a fight with another boy at school and ran away from the priest. I didn’t want to get a beating.”

To his surprise, the two men laughed.

The first man shook his head and in his broken Spanish said, “Go home. No one is allowed here. If we catch you here again, we shoot you. Understand?”

The second man took a step toward Roberto, and for a minute he appeared about to grab him, but the man just pointed down the path toward Sagua. “Go on, get out of here while we are in a good mood. Don’t tell anyone you were here. Don’t tell them what you saw. And don’t come back.”

“Yes, sir.” Roberto scrambled to his feet. “I will say not a word.”

He slipped and fell over his own feet.

The two men laughed.

Roberto picked himself up. As he stood, he noticed a convoy of trucks following a new road at the base of the cliffs. Behind them marched three columns of white men in the checkered shirts and cheap pants of farm workers.

The first man took a warning step toward Roberto. “Go, now, boy.”

Roberto ran down the path along the top of the cliff. Once out of sight of the soldiers, he looked to his right. In the bay, he saw ships. Not the usual fishing boats but large cargo ships with Russian lettering.

He didn’t know what was going on, but something big was about to happen.

With no place else to go, Roberto went to visit his friend Pepeto, who worked in his family’s cantina on the outskirts of Sagua. A steep overhung canvas covered an open-walled room to allow the breeze and to provide relief from the sun. A crowd of men in checkered shirts stood shoulder to shoulder around a worn mahogany bar. Most were white, with blonde hair. Roberto knew all of the townsmen. He didn’t recognize any of these strangers.

“Roberto!” Pepeto called from behind the bar. He waved with both hands. “Come. We are in need of help. My father will pay. Come, quick.”

In the middle of the open room, a dozen men sat side by side on both sides of a narrow table.

Roberto did not need the money, but before he could refuse, Señor Cruz, a former freedom fighter with a thick mustache, came up from behind him. His hand clasped Roberto’s arm. “Thank you for helping. We have never had so many customers before. In the kitchen. You can wash the glasses.”

The thought of arguing never occurred to Roberto. For the next three hours, he scrubbed glasses and washed ashtrays full of cigar butts. Relief came when Señor Cruz entered into the back room.

“Roberto, thank you for your help today. The crowd of Russians has died down.” He looked upward. “Here, take this plate of Arroz Moro and go have something to eat.”

Roberto took the black beans and rice and went to find a table in the open bar area. Only a few Russians remained. One was the man with the clipboard.

“Hey, truant,” the Russian motioned Roberto close. “Come over here.”

At first, Roberto thought of just running out of the cantina, but the Russian had slid off his stool and stumbled toward Roberto, lurching to the right and left as he came over. He finally fell into a chair at the table.

“Tell me, mal’chik,” the man waved a near empty bottle of Vodka at Roberto, “did you make it back to school?”

Roberto didn’t answer but took a big bite of rice.

“Ah-ha!” The Russian laughed loud and long. “You need to study hard. Through education, you can rise above this…” he looked around the small bar, “pig pen, if you want to amount to something. Tell me mal’chik, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Roberto didn’t like the man. “What is this word, mal’chik, you keep calling me?”

The Russian took another swig from his bottle. “Mal’chik? It just means boy. Not an insult.”

Drunks could turn mean in the space of a breath. Roberto, who had been taught to honor those older than him, answered the question, which seemed harmless enough, but he didn’t trust the man. “I want to be an astronaut and go into space like Yuri Gagarin.”

The Russian blinked several times. He put down the bottle. “What are your math grades?”

Roberto smiled. “The highest in my school.”

The Russian nodded. “High math grades are good, but…”

Roberto blurted out, “The highest of anyone who has ever attended my school.”

The Russian smiled. He turned and called out to Señor Cruz, “Bring me some paper and a pencil, por favor.”

When Señor Cruz brought the paper and pencil, the Russian took them and began writing furiously. “You don’t speak Russian?”

“No, but German, English, Spanish, and Latin.”

The Russian looked up from his writing long enough to frown. He gave a quick look around the room. “You learned all these in school?”

Roberto hesitated before admitting, “My mother is half-German, half-Cuban.” He said nothing about his American father.

“Good. Good. German is a good language for a rocket scientist to know. Almost as good as Russian.” The Russian finished, turned around the paper, and said, “Solve this equation.”

Roberto read what the Russian had written. “A spray combustion model?” He picked up the pencil and began to work on solving the equation. When he finished, he handed the paper back.

The Russian read through the work. When he finished, he no longer slurred his words. “My name is Sergei Albertovitch. I am the head of Propulsion Engineering at the Moscow Aviation Institute.” There was an intensity in Albertovitch’s eyes that scared Roberto. “You are going to be my prize pupil. What class are you in school?”

The night before Castro’s men arrested his father, Roberto had promised he would find a way to go to the United States and attend MIT. Not for a minute did he want to go to Russia to study. He had told the lie to impress the Russian. His mother always warned him his pride would be his undoing.

“Come, come, mal’chik, which school do you attend?”

Unable to think of a way to avoid answering the question, Roberto told the truth. “St. Mary’s Secondary School.”

Albertovitch raised one eyebrow. Apparently, he knew the school’s reputation as the best science school in Cuba. “Which class?”

“I’m a senior.”

“Good!” Albertovitch clapped his hands. “You graduate in the spring. Excellent. I will arrange for you to come to Moscow. You will learn Russian in the meantime.” He turned his vodka bottle upside down. One drop fell to the table. Standing up, Albertovitch shouted, “More vodka!”

What a strange man. Roberto watched as Albertovitch opened the bottle Señor Cruz brought him. “May I ask, why are you in Cuba, Señor Albertovitch? We have no rockets here.”

Albertovitch twisted around to stare at Roberto. At first, he seemed angry, and Roberto feared he might have made a big mistake asking such a personal question. The Russian brought a finger to his lips. “Not here. Go home now, mal’chik.”

Roberto got up to take his plate back to the kitchen. Albertovitch reached out to take Roberto’s arm. “Leave it here. Come back tomorrow. After school. I will be waiting for you. We will have your first lesson.”

Today was Friday. “Tomorrow is Saturday. We have no school.”

“Excellent.” Albertovitch waved him off. His eyelids were only half open. “Come in the afternoon then.”

Father Pedro sat in St. Mary’s small chapel, his head bowed as he prayed. Roberto stood in the doorway, crossed himself, then entered, taking care not to make a sound as he closed the double doors.

He waited for the priest to raise his head before walking up toward the plain altar. He kneeled again, bowing his head to the simple cross and communion table at the front of the room.

Then he took a seat on the pew beside the priest.

Father Pedro said nothing for several minutes. Roberto folded his hands, closed his eyes and pretended to pray, but no words came to him. He wondered how his father had felt in prison, waiting to learn if he would live or die.

Roberto waited now to see what would happen to him for hitting the son of the head of the Revolutionary Committee.

Unable to stand the suspense any longer he opened his eyes to find Father Pedro watching him.

“You ran because you were afraid.”

Roberto nodded.

“I understand. I have talked to Miguel’s father. He laughed when he heard you had struck his son. He said Miguel wouldn’t tell him what started the fight but whatever it was; a good revolutionary always defends his honor. Was this a fight of honor, Roberto?”

Roberto nodded but said nothing.

“The other boys said Miguel said things about your father.”

Roberto took a deep breath but still said nothing.

“It is dangerous for you to defend the honor of your father, Roberto. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Padre.”

“Good. Where did you go today?”

“To the lime cliffs.”

“I will pray over your punishment tonight and let you know in the morning how you can make amends for fighting, and running away from school.”

“I understand.” As a boarding student Roberto had no other adult he trusted for advice, and he needed advice now. “Father, I saw Russians today. Many Russians.”

Father Pedro sat back down. He looked not at Roberto but faced the cross on the wall in front of them. “How many?”

“More than I could count. Trucks too.”

“What type of trucks?”

“Dozens. They were driving to the limestone cliffs.”

Father Pedro smoothed his frock over his knees. “I have heard stories from villagers living on the outskirts of town that for months many men have arrived.”

Roberto leaned close. “They found me on top of the limestone cliffs and told me to tell no one and not to come back.” He waited and when Father Pedro said nothing continued. “I went to see my friend, Pepeto. He works.”

Father Pedro raised his hand in the air. “I know Pepeto. His father, Señor Cruz owns the cantina at the edge of town.”

‘Yes, that is the one. The cantina was so full of Russians that Señor Cruz told me to stay and help them washing glasses. He gave me dinner as compensation.”

Father Pedro laughed. “Then I suppose telling you to go to bed with no dinner is not an effective punishment tonight.”

Roberto hung his head down and tried his best to look sorry. “No, Father.” He continued with his story. “There is something else. I talked to one of the Russians. I told him I wanted to study rocket engineering in college. He says he is the head of Propulsion Engineering at the Moscow Aviation Institute, but he wore clothes like a farmer, not a professor. He must be lying but he gave me a propulsion equation to solve, and when I got it right, he said he wants to teach me Russian and engineering.”

“Well.” Father Pedro sat back in his chair. He put the fingertips of both hands together. “That is quite some story.”

“Father, why would a missile expert be in Sagua La Grande dressed as a farmer?”

“That,” Father Pedro said, “is exactly what I want to know.”

“Should I go, Father? To see the Russian?” On the one hand, Roberto wanted to know everything he could about rockets and space travel. On the other hand, the Soviets scared him.

“Did he tell you to come and see him again?”

“Yes, tomorrow after church. At the cantina.”

“Good.” Father Pedro stood up again. “Go to your room. Get the assignments you missed from the other boys. I expect to get your homework tomorrow morning, even though it is not a school day.”

Father Pedro started for the door. He stopped and turned back to face, Roberto. “Do not tell anyone else about your meeting with the Russian. These are dangerous times. You can never trust Castro or the Russians. Remember that.”

October 20, 1962

After Mass, Father Pedro found Roberto in the hall. Father Pedro leaned close. “Say nothing, but walk with me.”

They walked out of the school.

They reached an old wooden bench positioned to watch the boats in the bay, under a big belly palm tree. The heat of the sun had brought out the aroma of blooming Butterfly Jasmine along the river. Father Padre stopped and sat down. “Roberto, I knew your father very well. He was an intelligent and brave man.”

Clouds moved in from the east blocking the sun. The sudden change in temperature caught Roberto by surprise. “You knew my father?”

“Yes. We worked closely together…on a number of…projects.”

“I didn’t know that.” What kind of projects had the two worked on together? Was Father Pedro trying to tell Roberto he too was a spy?

Father Pedro smoothed his cloak over his knees. “Are you afraid to meet with the Russian again?”

A breeze blew in from the water causing a nearby flag to whip back and forth. The metal clasp clanged against the tall pole. “No.”

Father Padre turned and gazed at Roberto as if trying to make a decision. “Truly? You are not scared to see the Russian again?”

“Only that I might have to go to Moscow. I promised my father I would go to school at MIT.”

Father Padre laughed. On the bay, a Soviet ship sailed by. “Do you see that ship?”

“Yes, it is a Soviet vessel.”

“Correct.” Father Padre watched the ship sail by for a few minutes. He didn’t look at Roberto but continued to look at the Russian ship. “The Soviets say they have agricultural equipment on board their vessels. Do you believe you saw farming equipment when you were on the cliff?”

“It is hard to say. I saw a convoy. The canvas sides were up. Inside were men. There were a couple of flatbed trucks with what looked like tractors. I guess they must be for the farms.”

Father Pedro pulled out a cigar and sniffed it. “Why do you think your Russian friend was on the cliff if he were a rocket scientist?”

Roberto had wondered the same thing. “Well, rockets are impacted by the wind. He might be taking measurements or installing equipment to provide meteorological readings.”

“Yes. I think that might be true. You know Roberto, Cuba is a small island caught between the Americans and the Soviets. Both see us as weak. But the Soviets are here, and they invade countries and take them over.”

The priest lit his cigar. He puffed several times until the leaves caught. Then he took a long drag. After he had blown the smoke out toward the bay, he continued. “I have heard rumors since July that the Soviet ships have been arriving every few weeks. Some of the villagers say that the ships have brought construction equipment and much machinery to Cuba. If that is true, we could find ourselves in the middle of a battle between the U.S. and the Soviets. If the two countries start shooting missiles at each other, they may well destroy each other, but what is true is that they will destroy Cuba.”

“What do you need me to do, Father?”

On the bay, the Soviet ship blew its horn as it neared the dock.

“I need you to meet with your Russian rocket scientist and find out just what the Soviets are doing in Sagua La Grande.”

He reached into his robe and withdrew a tiny miniature camera no more than two inches long. It looked just a real camera with a lens smaller than a Mexican silver dollar. The little camera even had a brown leather case with a snap on top. “Take this. You have used a camera before?”

“Yes.” Roberto didn’t tell Father Pedro that after his father’s arrest his mother had found the same camera under their mattress. But where did Father Pedro get his?

“Good. This camera works like a real camera. See this button beside the lens? Push this to take the picture.” The single click was loud for such a tiny camera.

Father Pedro rolled the dial with two fingers. Then he reached back in his robe again. This time he pulled out a small box no more than an inch by two inches. He looked around.

Roberto followed Father Pedro’s lead. There was no one in sight.

“Hold out your hand by your side. Palm up.”

Roberto obeyed and Father Pedro, holding his hand upside down dropped the small carton in Roberto’s palm. “Film. Five rolls. Do not let anyone know where you got this. Lives are at stake, Roberto. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“If you are caught, you will be charged as a spy. They will torture you to find out who you were working with.”

“I’m a boy. I went out of curiosity.”

“I don’t think so.”

Roberto thought for a moment. “I work for the Americans as did my father.”

Father Pedro hung his head down as if in prayer. “They will believe you. And they will kill you for it.”

“Then,” Roberto tried to look brave as he imagined his father had been. “I will not get caught.”

Father Pedro looked back at the bay. “Once you have taken the pictures to show what the Russians have brought to Cuba, go to the mangrove just outside of town by the river. There are three trees together.”

“I know the place.”

At the base of the middle tree, you will find a string attached to a jar hanging between the tree roots. Put the camera in the jar and lower the jar back in between the roots. That way if you are caught, I can still retrieve the camera and the photos. After you return the jar, get to a phone and call me. Let the phone ring three times, then hang up. Afterward, go straight to the airport. Talk to no one. Say nothing to your friends. Your life will depend on it.”

Roberto knew better. Everyone at the school knew how close he was to Father Pedro. Both of their lives depended on silence.

And his success.

When Roberto entered the cantina, Albertovitch waved to him. “Come here. I brought you some books. They are in German so you should be able to understand them.”

After they had completed an introductory lesson on thermodynamics, Albertovitch called Señor Cruz over and ordered a bottle of vodka. He had several drinks in quick succession. “You know you catch on very quickly. I’m impressed.”

Roberto remembered Father Pedro’s advice to keep quiet. “Thank you.”

Albertovitch continued to drink. The more he drank, the more he talked. “Say, Roberto, have you ever seen a missile?”

“No. Just in books.”

Albertovitch threw back his head and emptied his glass. As he poured a refill, he poked Roberto in the arm. “How would you like to work with me on real missiles?”

“Great, I’m a bit worried about Moscow though. It is cold there.”

“No, no.” Albertovitch laughed, then leaned forward and whispered, “Here. In Sagua La Grande.”

For a moment Roberto thought he must have misunderstood. There were no missiles in Sagua La Grande.

Albertovitch laughed louder and slapped his leg. “You don’t believe me? Come, come. I’ll take you right now.”

“Now?” Roberto began to wonder if this man were sane. Perhaps he was just a drunken fool, and his talk about being a propulsion expert was just the bragging of an alcoholic. “You work on missiles at night?”

Albertovitch looked at his watch. “Yes, we should go now. Come mal’chik, let’s go see your first real missile.”

The storm grew worse as they walked through the forest. Palms leaned so far to one side and then the next Roberto feared they might topple over.

“This cloud cover is good. No planes overhead.” Albertovitch covered his eyes to shield them from raindrops as they walked into an opening in the forest where men in checkered shirts and cheap pants secured tarps covering various types of equipment.

Men shouted orders in Spanish and Russian as the storm intensified. Hurricane season lasted another month. Roberto turned his face away to breathe as an unrelenting wind howled through a small grove of mahogany trees.

Underneath the cover of a few palm trees, the Soviets had hidden dozens of tents. Roberto couldn’t count how many men the camp held, so he counted groups of tents. There were ten groups, each with over one hundred tents. Over ten thousand Soviets were just outside of Sagua La Grande, and no one knew.

The Soviets wore civilian clothes, so Roberto didn’t look that out of place. Still, Albertovitch appeared to grow nervous as they walked through the camp.

“Here, here.” Albertovitch pulled Roberto over into a large tent. “Get inside.”

Albertovitch relaxed a bit once they entered the shelter, but he still kept looking at the doorway. He leaned close to Roberto. “Do not talk. I think it is better if you just listen.”

The tent held several crates, all closed. Soviet workers stood around various types of equipment, none of which Roberto had seen before.

Albertovitch stopped in front of a crate that Roberto estimated to be nearly 72 feet long. This one was open and inside, Roberto saw his first missile up close.

“Are you excited?” Albertovitch reached out to give the weapon an affectionate pat.

Excited wasn’t the word for Roberto’s feelings. His stomach had tightened into such a knot he found breathing a chore. “Are you sure it is okay for me to be here?”

Albertovitch looked around. “We don’t tell anyone, right?”

“Right.” Roberto’s hand brushed against the camera in his pants pocket. If these men found the camera, he would see his father soon in heaven. It was a small consolation, and although Roberto had never admitted as much to Father Pedro, he wasn’t sure he was a believer.

Numerous lamps placed around the tent. “There is so much light. Where do you get your electricity?”

Albertovitch smiled as if he had received a compliment. “We built our own power station!”

Several men came over and began to talk to Albertovitch in Russian. Roberto couldn’t understand them, so he just studied the missile.

He had only seen a missile like this in a magazine, but he was sure this was an SS-4. The kind the Soviets liked to use in their military parades.

The SS-4 was a medium-range ballistic missile. Thermonuclear. If he could sneak a photo, he would have the proof nuclear missiles were in Cuba.

Missiles that could be used in a world war.

Roberto reached into his pocket, nudged the camera lens to the hole in his pants and pressed down on the tiny button next to the lens. There was a distinct click.

Behind him, a man said in Spanish, “What is your name? Who are you? What are you doing there?”

Four men were closing in on Roberto.

Albertovitch came to his side. He began arguing with three other men in Russian. After several minutes of what sounded like an angry exchange, the Russian said, “It is okay. I have told them that you are a progeny and are studying at the university with me next year. We should go now. Do not look back at them.”

Roberto tried to act normal, but decided scared to death was probably a normal reaction for a Cuban teenager caught in a Soviet secret camp.

He followed Albertovitch outside. The rain came down so hard the drops hurt when they struck bare skin. A large mahogany tree that had toppled over in the storm blocked a flatbed truck carrying barrels of wire.

Albertovitch took hold of Roberto’s arm. “Be careful. The men told me that a hurricane is coming. We do not have much time to return to town.”

In the forest, Roberto heard creaking. Albertovitch pushed him forward. “Keep going; you are hearing trees falling.”

Only a hundred yards more and Roberto would be back on the familiar trail to Sagua La Grande.

Behind him, Roberto heard a voice in Spanish. “Stop. Stop that boy.”

Five Cuban soldiers ran up and raised their rifles, blocking Roberto’s way to the path and out of the camp.

“What is this boy doing here?”

Roberto stood in the rain. At first, he didn’t recognize the man pointing at him and then he did. Miguel’s father. The head of Sagua La Grande’s Revolutionary Committee.

Albertovitch extended his hand. “I am Sergei Albertovitch. I am in charge of the missile installation. This boy here is a protégé of mine. He…”

Miguel’s father pushed Albertovitch aside. “This boy’s father was executed by Castro for being an American spy. Are you the idiot who brought him here?”

Roberto took a gamble. “I cannot help what my father did, but I am a loyal Cuban citizen who wants to be a Soviet astronaut. Professor Albertovitch is helping me become a committed Communist.”

An argument broke out between the Russians and the Cubans. Roberto stood in the rain, listening to the pounding of the ocean waves, the screaming of the wind and the creaking of the trees as the men’s voices grew angrier.

A tremendous explosion drowned out all the noise. At the far end of the camp, the jagged light of a lightning bolt ignited a white fireball of sparks and flame.

Every lamp in the camp went out.

Roberto could hear men shouting at each other, but under the forest canopy, he could not see.

And, he realized, no one could see him.

So he ran.

He ran as fast as he could off the path and into the dense forest. He tripped over stumps. He felt brush scrape his skin.

He put his arms in front of his face, and he kept running until he tripped and fell into the mud.

In the dark, he heard voices shouting his name.

His fingers felt not ground beneath him, but smooth, jagged roots. He had reached the mangrove trees.

He should be able to see the lights of Sequa La Grande, but he could not see a thing.

Electricity must be out in the city as well. On his hands and knees, he climbed over the mangrove’s roots until his fingers felt the smooth bark of the tree trunk.

He crawled to his right over more roots, tracing the manacles as they widened until he reached another tree trunk.

He repeated the exercise again, but this time, when the roots became thinner, he found no others. He must be at the third tree.

In the distance, he heard a rifle shot.

He had come too far to back down now. It is okay to be afraid, his father had told him. It was okay to be afraid, but his father had still carried out his mission.

Roberto climbed back over the roots until he reached the middle tree. He plunged his arms into the water around the roots at the foot of the trunk. On his fourth try, his fingers found a string. Pulling on the string, he raised a small glass jar.

Roberto put the tiny camera in the jar. He screwed the lid back on and lowered the jar back into the water. He hoped the rain had not ruined the film or everything he had risked would be in vain.

He had completed his mission. Now, no matter what might happen to him, the world would know that the Russians had nuclear missiles in Cuba.

Roberto crawled on his hands and knees until he found the path leading back to town. A path he had traveled hundreds of times since entering St. Mary’s.

Afraid of being followed, Roberto didn’t go to the school but instead went toward the cantina. In the town the people had boarded up their windows, but the light from candles shone through the cracks. Roberto found the cantina. He pounded on the door. The wind howled so loud he doubted anyone could hear him, but after a few minutes, Señor Cruz opened the door.

“Roberto? What are you doing out in this storm? Don’t you know there is a hurricane going on?”

“I was lost in the woods. May I come in?”

He didn’t need to ask for Señor Cruz was already pulling him into the kitchen that connected to the outdoor bar, then guided him into the back room where the family lived.

Roberto thanked him for his hospitality. “May I use your phone.”

Señora Cruz opened a mahogany chest decorated with deep carvings. “The phones are not working in town. The storm must have blown down the telephone poles.” She took out sheets and a blanket. “Here, you will sleep on our floor tonight. Tomorrow, in the daylight you will be able to see to return to school.”

October 21, 1962

Roberto didn’t sleep. He listened to the storm until the sound of the rain quieted to a soft patter. Rising quietly, he tiptoed out the door, through the kitchen, and into the dark street. He followed the road toward the airport.

In most parts of the world, the sun rises is such a way that there is a faint light that gets brighter during a period called dawn according to Roberto’s geography books.

Not in Cuba. The night is dark, and then in a sudden burst, the sun appears, and there is light. Only on rare occasions, is there a brief period of the dim light called dawn.

God must be looking out for him Roberto decided, or perhaps the hurricane was to blame, but as he walked through town on his way to the airport, dawn broke, allowing him to see the debris on the ground.

Many of the Royal Palm trees that lined the boulevard had fallen. He climbed over them with ease, even with his short legs.

The streets remained empty.

Soon, though, the sun would appear, and everyone would be outside. The soldiers and Revolutionary Committee members would be working to clean up the damage.

Roberto needed to get off the street before someone saw him. In the forest downed trees would make walking hard, but here in the open he could be spotted.

The sun reached its peak as Roberto stood at the edge of the woods, in sight of the small airport on the outskirts of Sagua. The only way to enter the airport was to walk through the gate. After a quick prayer and appeal to his father to give him courage, Roberto left the cover of the forest and walked down the road.

“There he is.”

A truck with four Cuban soldiers honked its horn. The men shouted for Roberto to stop or they would shoot. Roberto ran. He ran as fast as he could for the gate. Inside the gate, he recognized Father Pedro waving his hands.

He expected to be shot with every step he took. As he reached the gate, he did hear gunshots, but to his amazement, he was not hit.

Father Pedro ran up to him and pulled him toward the airport entrance. Roberto knew he didn’t have much time before the soldiers caught him. “I couldn’t call you, Father. The phone lines are all down.”

“It is okay, Roberto.”

“The package is safe.”

Another man wearing a fedora and dressed in a black business suit came up to them. “Is this the boy, Father?”

“Yes. This is the one.”

Roberto thought he must be in trouble. Was he about to be arrested?

The man extended his hand. In English, he said, “Roberto MacAllister, on behalf of the United States, I want to thank you for your bravery. Follow me.”

Father Pedro ran with Roberto and the American through the airport, down a corridor. They came to an exit door and ran out onto a runway. A Pan America plane sat on the tarmac, its propellers turning.

Roberto stopped running. “Father, what is going on?”

The American pushed Roberto forward. “This is an Operation Peter Pan flight. We are taking you to Miami, Roberto, where you will be safe.”

Safe? Did that mean the Americans would protect him from the Russians and Castro?

Inside the plane, Roberto saw children, mostly teenagers, in every seat. The door closed. A young woman in a uniform smiled at Roberto. “Please sit down and buckle your seat belt. We will be taking off immediately.”

Taking off? But he hadn’t seen his mother. He hadn’t said goodbye to her. What would she think when she found out he had left Cuba? Too much had happened too quickly. Roberto tried to breathe but couldn’t manage more than short gasps.

Father Pedro put his hand on Roberto’s shoulder. “Here, Roberto, sit. Take a few deep breaths. You are safe now. You can relax. He pointed to the aisle seat. On the other side of the aisle sat the American.

Father Pedro sat back in his seat. “When the storm hit, I knew you couldn’t call, so I came to the airport and asked the Project Peter Pan to hold a seat for you on this plane to Miami. You are going to the United States where you can study. Like these other kids. I have been working with this project for two years to get students out of Cuba and to the U.S. to study.”

The American leaned over across the aisle. “Roberto, Father Pedro tells me you were in a Soviet camp?”

“Yes.” Roberto watched Cuba disappear under a cloud. He was still thinking of his mother. She would be relieved to learn he had escaped. She had prayed for so long they might return to her country. But he would miss her. “I saw many Soviet soldiers and Cuban soldiers. And I saw an SS-4 missile.”

“You are sure?”

Roberto didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I’ve seen them in magazines.”

“Then it is true.” The American shook his head. “We’ve heard rumors from villagers a while, but Washington hasn’t believed us.”

“I took a picture of the missile.” Roberto turned toward Father Pedro. “I put the camera in the jar under the mangrove tree. Just like you said.”

The American unbuckled his seat belt. “Excuse me. I need to go to the cabin and get a message to headquarters. I have to tell them to get that jar and then get the goddamn U-2s in the air.”

Father Pedro smiled at Roberto. “You did well, Roberto. Do you still want to be an astronaut?”

“I think,” Roberto thought for a moment and realized he was very sure of his answer. “I want to be a spy.” He looked out the window at the blue sky above him and the clouds below him. “And an astronaut.”

Father Pedro laughed. “A spy in the sky. Your father would be very proud.”

The Americans and the Soviets could still start launching missiles. The danger wasn’t over, but Roberto knew he had done what he could. Just like his father.