Castro's bomb

Chapter Ten

Finding a way to plug into the phone lines had proven to be an unexpectedly difficult problem. The lines generally ran parallel to the roads which meant anyone climbing the poles during the day would be visible, while climbing them at night meant they might meet up with Cuban soldiers who were marching south.

Finally, they found a line that ran from the road and down a long driveway to a large farm compound and which wasn't all that high off the ground. Ward climbed a low pole, clamped on, and scooted down as quickly as he could as they all held their breath, praying that no one would see him. The others quickly buried the line in a shallow trench that ran about a hundred yards into some covering bushes. Cullen had once again gone back onto the base and cannibalized some telephone wires that were lying all over Guantanamo.

"I sincerely hope this is the last time any one of us has to go into that place," Cullen said of their forays into Gitmo. "It's just too damn dangerous."

Andrew Ross couldn't argue. But they needed the wire and that made the risk necessary.

It had been agreed that Cathy would be the one to make the phone call on the logical assumption that she, as a woman, wouldn't be taken for a soldier by anyone who happened to be listening in. They had no idea to what extent the Cubans monitored the phone calls of ordinary people. She only hoped her Spanish was adequate enough and that she wouldn't be connected to Finland by a confused operator. They all wondered if phone connections to the U.S. still existed. It was time to find out. If this didn't work they were going to call the Canadian Embassy in Havana and ask them to relay a message to the fictitious “mother house” of the poor confused Canadian missionaries. Cathy took a deep breath and, in halting Spanish, contacted the operator.

A few minutes later and hundreds of miles to the north, Charley Kraeger was jolted out of his reveries by the sound of the phone ringing. His thoughts had largely revolved around Elena and what she might look like without any clothes.

"Hello," he said, and then, realizing it was on the special line, quickly added in a cheerful voice, "Canadian Evangelical Missions."

A woman with a heavy Spanish accent inquired if he would accept a collect call from a Sister Catherine from the Canadian Evangelical Missions in Cuba.

Charley thought quickly. Who the hell was Sister Catherine? Was it another jokester? He'd had a couple of them since the line had been set up and wanted to strangle them all. But the operator sounded like she was Cuban.

He didn't have a choice. "I will accept the call."

What the hell, he thought. It was the government's money. As he waited the moment it took for the call to be connected, he scanned the short list of missing civilians for anyone named Catherine. He grinned as he found a young teacher named Catherine Malone.

"Hello?" It was a young woman's hesitant voice. The line was surprisingly clear considering they were in contact with an enemy country. "This is Sister Catherine. To whom am I speaking?"

"This is the Reverend Malone," he said, in a sudden burst of genius using her last name to indicate he knew who she was.

He heard her sob and then laugh on the phone and immediately decided he liked her. "Reverend Malone, it is so good to hear your voice after all that has happened."

"Are you safe?"

"For the moment yes. There is no fighting near us, although that could change at any moment if the capitalist American aggressors should attack. We would like your help in either getting us out or getting us to safety."

"How many are you?" Charley asked.

"Along with the Reverend Ross and Reverend Cullen, there are five others," and she rattled off their names. Kraeger and one of his assistants quickly checked them off a list of the missing and exulted at the find.

"Are there any other members of our flock in the area?" Kraeger inquired.

"None that I know of, your eminence."

Your eminence? He nearly choked to keep from laughing. He wanted to hug her. "How can we reach you?"

"Reverend, the telephone is very uncertain under the circumstances," she said and added a couple of addresses where mail could be dropped off. The addresses were coordinates on a map for a large field nearby.

"Sister," Charley said soothingly, "we will make every effort to contact you, perhaps even drop in on you. Be comforted. No one has forgotten you. It may take a couple of days, even nights, but be assured that you are uppermost in our thoughts and prayers."

"Thank you, Reverend," Cathy said and hung up. The others were gathered around and staring at her. Andrew had managed to hear the conversation and was breathing heavily in relief. He gave a thumbs-up to the others who all grinned foolishly.

Cathy was crying. She — they — no longer felt so alone and lost. She felt her abdomen cramp. She felt it again and started to laugh. Her period was starting. How hilarious. She'd hated having her period since she'd had her first at age thirteen, and now she was thrilled because it meant she wasn't pregnant by that pig of a Cuban soldier. She wasn't pregnant and they'd contacted the United States. She started to laugh and cry at the same time. Life was good and going to get better. She hoped.

General Juan Ortega munched on a piece of fruit and looked across the table at Colonel, now General, Humberto Cordero, commandant of the prison camp housing the American POWs. "Humberto, if I didn't need you and if you weren't related to my wife I would have you executed, just like I almost did to that maniacal pilot who flew me to Havana and back."

Cordero laughed. "If you did that, my general, you would have no one to trust and no one to make you look good by displaying my own inadequacies."

Ortega sighed. "True enough."

"And if I was so bad, then why would you have promoted me and given me control of all Santiago?"

"I promoted you because you are an honest man in your own way and, despite the fact that you have planned the prison so insanely that the inmates now run it. You have done a reasonably good job considering the human waste matter I gave you as guards."

Cordero smiled. "And now you have blessed me with a militia division of eight thousand untrained and poorly armed men with which I am to defend Santiago from the American hordes. How can I possibly thank you, dear cousin?"

"By delaying them for at least a couple of minutes when they arrive, my equally dear cousin. No, I have no illusions. The Americans can sweep in and retake Guantanamo if they are willing to pay the price. Their planes fly overhead unopposed and attack anything they think is military. If it weren't for the fact that our forces have been disbursed so widely, our losses would already be unacceptable. You have done well by scattering your division throughout the civilian areas of Santiago."

Cordero shrugged. "Which is against the Geneva Convention, but who cares? I didn't sign the damn thing."

"Nor did I and neither did Comrade Fidel, although I have been told to try and adhere to its terms as much as possible. Tell me, what are your thoughts on the American prisoners in your control?"

"They are quiet," Cordero said, "which is worrying. Their senior officer, Major Hartford, is very smart and very clever. I think they are playing a waiting game because they know that escape is virtually impossible. Even if they were to breach the wires, where would they go? This is an island and a host of gringos would stick out like a nun in a whorehouse."

"I am well aware that Cuba is an island," Ortega said. "But are they getting their hands on weapons? Are they in radio contact with the United States? What?"

Cordero sighed. "A few of the uniformed rabble now under my command have managed to lose some weapons and have been severely punished, but I have no idea if they were lost, stolen by Americans for use against us, or stolen by thieves wanting to make some money. As to the yanquis having a radio in camp, we have not picked up any transmissions coming from the camp. We assume they have transistor radio receivers and are following news broadcasts and may well be receiving coded messages."

"Of course."

"And even if we do detect a broadcast, what should we do? I'm certain that any short-wave radio will be small and easy to hide on almost an instant's notice. Just like transistor radios, we would never find them."

"Have you any spies in their camp?" Ortega asked and immediately realized how foolish the question was. American marines and sailors were running the camp under their own officers. They knew each other, which meant spies were out of the question, and the Americans hadn't been in prison long enough to seduce any of them as traitors.

"Forget I asked." Ortega sighed. "Continue to do the best you can. Now, what about those men you found?"

Cordero felt good about this. His patrols had found two seriously wounded sailors hiding just outside the base and had also located a number of bodies in the rubble, largely from the stench.

"The two sailors are recovering and will be sent to Havana so the Swiss can send them to Miami. We have notified the Swiss of the identities of the bodies and they will forward the information to the Americans. We have also located places where the Americans may have buried their dead. We are in no hurry to disinter them, although I will if you so desire it."

Ortega nodded. "I do, but send some prisoners from the camp to do it. They will treat their own dead with more respect. Such considerations will play well with other Latin nations and at the United Nations. Now, what have you heard about those Canadian missionaries? Fidel is concerned that they haven't been located, despite the fact that they managed to telephone their office in Toronto."

Cordero looked at him in disbelief. "Beloved cousin and general, do you and Comrade Fidel truly believe that they are missionaries? Or that they phoned Toronto? I got a report on the names used and compared them with the American roster and they are all on it. Missionaries my ass, my dear cousin, they are Americans marines calling for help, and the woman who made the call is a civilian employee who was among the missing."

Ortega flushed angrily. How could he and his superiors in Havana have been so stupid? Because they were busy gloating over their success and preparing for the American response, that's how.

"You will try to find them, won't you?" Ortega said sweetly.

"Of course. But not to the extent that it detracts from my main goals, which are the control of the prisoners and the defense of Santiago. A half a dozen lost and lonely marines are not a threat to Cuba. By the way, Comrade Fidel's latest speech alluded to secret weapons that will drive away the Americans. What can you say about that?"

Ortega forced himself to smile. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret would it? What is the saying — three can keep a secret if two are dead?"

But Ortega had heard the speech and picked up other thinly veiled references from Raul and Che, in addition to what was mentioned in Fidel's speech. What the devil were those people in Havana up to this time?

Andrei Sokolov, once honored to be a major in the rocket forces of the army of the Soviet Union, and an officer in the proud Rocket Regiment stationed near Havana, paced and waited for his contact to show himself.

He had flown from Havana to Mexico City in a plane filled with American wounded. He had been horrified by the extent of the damage to their bodies. Some were blind and others were amputees. The ones who were conscious had stared at him curiously but made no attempt at conversation. Why should they? He was dressed as a civilian. Sokolov had been impressed by their inner strength and stoicism.

Once in Mexico, he had changed into a different set of civilian clothes, bought a cheap old car and driven north. At the border between Mexico and Brownsville, Texas, he'd seen the increased surveillance brought about by the conflict between the U.S. and Cuba and been momentarily stalled. He couldn't pass himself as an American and didn't want to tell everything to an American border guard who might, after all, be as corrupt and inept as they were in the Soviet empire. He heard the Americans weren't corrupt, but who knew for certain?

But that was the bad news. He drove a few dozen miles west, parked the car, which was rattling and dying, and simply walked across the Rio Grande with his shoes tied together and looped over his neck. He barely got his feet wet. Americans derisively called Mexicans who crossed illegally “wetbacks,” but no one was getting his back wet that day.

He’d put on his shoes and walked into Brownsville trying to exude a sense of confidence he didn't feel. There had to be eyes staring at him. It couldn't be that easy to cross into the United States, could it? And where were the secret police? He’d been trained to spot them, but could see nothing to indicate their presence. Wasn't anybody watching the people? What kind of country was this? He then thought that maybe the Americans were really good at covert surveillance and that did not make him feel better. From Brownsville he took a Greyhound Bus to New Orleans and a plane to Washington National Airport where he'd looked out the window and seen the U.S. Capitol and White House displayed below him as the plane banked to land. He'd again been amazed at just how easy it had been to get into the United States, and how vulnerable that country was to determined invaders. No commercial plane would be allowed anywhere close to the Kremlin. He shuddered. This was now his new country. If they couldn't protect their own borders, just how the devil were they going to protect him from the clutches of the KGB? He wondered if he should have bluffed out General Pliyev and stayed in Cuba, but quickly decided that was not a rational option. For better or worse, he was in the United States and was going to remain there for a very long time, assuming, of course, that he wasn’t killed.

Sokolov looked around, fearfully expecting to see, not his American contact, but Georgi Golikov, the chief of Soviet intelligence in Washington, D.C. He didn't know if Golikov was KGB or not and didn't care. He'd met Golikov once and thought that Golikov would be able to identify him. Sokolov presumed that he was now a very wanted man with a price on his head and that his photo was on display at every Soviet embassy and legation in the world, and most particularly those in the United States.

He was alone in a crowd by the Lincoln Memorial and the giant statue seemed to be staring balefully down on him. He slowly realized that several muscular young men in suits had loosely surrounded him. They were observing but making no overt move toward him. Despite the chill in the air, he was sweating. He began to shiver and his hand shook. If they were KGB, would they risk kidnapping him in such a crowd? Why not? They could have a car pull up and push him in it before any of the tourists around him had a chance to even take a picture or even wonder what they'd just seen.

Or would they just take him out right here and now? A casual brush-by and a quick jab with a poison dart and he'd be dead from an apparent heart attack in a few seconds. The KGB was good at those things. He began to whimper and a couple of people turned and looked at him. He wondered just why the hell he'd ever given that information to the Americans, and he hated General Pliyev for playing him like the fool he now knew he was.

Someone was staring at him from across the plaza. Was that Golikov? Mother of God, it was and there were two other Russians with him. Had they recognized him? He was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap that said Washington Senators, whatever they were. He'd just bought it at a souvenir stand. It was on sale because the team apparently no longer existed. It was a lousy disguise but it was all he could come up with on extremely short notice. Maybe he should have shoved cotton in his cheeks and a pillow under his shirt.

"Andrei?"

Sokolov nearly jumped out of his skin. The face was familiar and the smile seemed genuine. "Ulrich," Sokolov said, relief sweeping over him, "my good friend, Ulrich Fullmer. It is so good to see you."

Kraeger smiled and shook the Russian's hand. Sokolov pumped furiously and didn't seem to want to let go. The three other CIA agents moved closer in a protective cluster. Fifty yards away, Golikov shrugged and walked in the other direction.

"Good to see you, buddy," Kraeger said to Sokolov. "You're phone call was quite a surprise. Of course," he laughed as they steered the nervous Russian towards waiting cars, "I've been getting a lot of unexpected phone calls lately."

"What the hell is that?" Commander Sam Watkins asked. A score of blips had just appeared on the Coast Guard Cutter Willow's radar. The morning mist on the water hadn't quite burned off so the cutter's long range visibility was zilch. So too was the reliability and accuracy of their radar which had been acting up, either going down altogether or a giving false reads. Just once, he thought, it would be nice to have good equipment like the navy did.

"A bunch of small boats," was the answer. "Or at least that's what the radar says, assuming the radar is working okay."

At least it’s finally up at all, Watkins thought and swore again. Small boats headed for Cuba only twenty miles to the north of them meant only one thing: the damned refugees from Miami were going to invade Cuba and that was truly stupid on their part. His orders were simple. He was to try and keep the fools from making it to Cuba and getting killed.

A few minutes later and the mist had burned off. The swarm of boats was plainly visible. They were jammed with armed men who waved and cheered at the American warship which they assumed was going to protect them and even escort them to Cuba and revenge.

Watkins tried to raise them on the radio but they either didn't have radios or weren't responding. When he was within hailing distance he slowed the ship to barely a crawl and had one of the Spanish speaking crewmen call out over the loudspeaker and tell the boaters to halt and return to Florida. This was met with silence and the small boats continued. They had, however, stopped waving at the Willow. Several men on the boats gave them the finger.

"I think they understood," Lieutenant Harkins said.

Watkins was very uncomfortable. He didn't like for one minute the fact that he was only a couple of minutes flying time from a country they were fighting. He kept looking over his shoulder as if he could see the shoreline of Cuba. A few miles closer and he could. Still, he'd had his orders. The president wanted every effort made to stop the Miami-based Cuban refugees from invading what they thought of as their homeland. Jesus, he thought, this was as crazy as the Jews and the Arabs fighting over the Holy Land. Then he realized that Cuba was their holy land.

Watkins orders were that the large and well armed Coast Guard vessel was to try and herd the boats and turn them back, like a Border Collie corralling sheep, and all without hitting them or hurting anyone. Bullshit, he swore. Dumbest idea he'd ever heard of. You do not corral boats anymore than you can corral cats.

Nor were the Miami refugees cooperating. The Willow got within a few feet of several before they backed off and even scraped the hulls of several others Cuban boats. Now the swearing and screaming was becoming intense.

He heard shots and the sound of metal pinging against the hull. "Godammit, they're shooting at us," Watkins yelled. Everyone was ducking.

"Do we return fire?" Lieutenant Harkins asked.

"Fucked if I know," Watkins snarled. "I thought these guys were on our side. Tell the admiral that the boys from Miami aren't cooperating. They don't want to play nice."

No one had been hit or hurt from the burst of gunfire and he quickly decided that it had been the equivalent of a shot across the bows from the Miami crews. They were warning him to go away and let them recover their homes. Still, he had his orders and, if he tried to carry them out, people could get hurt if the Miami Cubans shot again and actually hit something. If that happened, he would have to return fire.

There was a sudden screeching sound and someone yelled, "MiGs!"

Two enemy planes passed only a few feet over the Willow. The Cuban planes' machine guns were spitting bullets, hitting the boats, and churning up the water with dead and dying exiles.

The Willow's guns opened up on the MiGs, accomplishing nothing. The Cuban planes were too low, too fast. Watkins quickly realized that they'd flown only a few feet above the waves and below his radar, assuming that their piece of shit radar had been working properly anyhow.

"They're coming back!" someone yelled. The MiGs banked and flew side by side toward them, their machine guns flashing. Each MiG carried a pair of bombs and the crew of the Willow watched in horror as they were dropped. Three bombs crashed into the sea in or near the crowd of mauled small boats, sending debris and torn bodies into the sky, while the fourth bomb headed directly towards the Willow.

One of the MiGs burst into flames as anti-aircraft fire from the Willow hit it. A small cheer went up as it cartwheeled into the sea. A second later, the fourth bomb exploded against the hull of the Willow. Watkins felt himself being hurled in the air, and then he was flung down hard on the metal deck. Flames and smoke enveloped him. Arms grabbed him and dragged him away from the fire. He lost consciousness for a moment. He heard someone ask for a tourniquet and wondered why. He looked down before someone could push him back. His left leg was gone. Bloody strands of meat dangled from where his knee had once been and blood was all over the place. Was it all his? If it was, he was a dead man.

He groaned and turned to say something to Lieutenant Harkins who was lying a few feet from him. Harkins would now have to take over. Watkins could speak, but Harkins couldn't. His executive officer was dead, his eyes were blank, and his chest was ripped open by bomb shards. Watkins watched as Harkins' horribly visible heart stopped beating.

"We gotta report this," he mumbled. Vitale was injecting him with morphine. The morphine, combined with loss of blood, was causing him to fade.

"It's done, skipper," Vitale said. "Planes are on the way and so are some ships. Don't you just wonder where they were a few minutes ago?"

"We heading back to Miami?" Watkins managed to ask, his voice weakening.

"As soon as we finish picking up the dead and wounded. We're safe, sir. We're not anywhere near sinking condition and the remaining MiG has disappeared."

Watkins had no idea which of his surviving officers was skippering the Willow and didn't care. They were all good men. They would definitely make it to Miami. As he lost consciousness he wondered what the hell would he do with only one leg.

Captain Miguel Rojas listened to his radio. The two planes he'd sent to attack the American warship had actually managed to hit her with one of their bombs, which was a totally unexpected bonus. When their spies in Florida radioed that a force of Miami based exiles was departing and would attempt to land near Havana, it created a dilemma and an opportunity. His superiors had been certain that the Americans would try to stop the exiles, and they also felt there was a tremendous opportunity to hurt both the United States and the growing exile community.

Thus, they’d devised the plan to attack the ship they know knew was called the Willow, along with killing a large number of exiles. It would require the Americans to launch fighters from Florida to protect them all, which would then provide a distraction to the Cuban main effort, an attack on Miami International Airport.

Rojas' flight of six swept-wing MiG 17 fighters was headed to Florida to bloody John F. Kennedy's nose. The planes were the best the Cuban air force had. They each had a 37mm nose cannon and a pair of 23mm guns in the wings, along with a 500 pound bomb. With external fuel tanks they would have no difficulty flying from Havana to Miami, along with engaging the enemy if they had to. Better, it was now very likely that the Americans were focused on rescuing their damaged ship.

Rojas was pleased at the opportunity to strike back, even though he was reasonably certain they would never again have the opportunity. Even though American carriers had not yet arrived, there were too many enemy planes in the air. The Cuban air force had suffered grievously and, after this attack, would go into hiding.

Rojas had been in on the discussions regarding their target. Homestead had been ruled out because it was already military and likely heavily defended. Therefore, Miami International with its brand new circular terminal was the target. Originally there had been a military presence, but it had been moved to nearby Homestead. Now, the airport was being re-configured to handle military traffic to fight Cuba, which made it a legitimate target.

They flew low over the lush Florida countryside, hoping they would not be sighted or picked up on radar. The MiG 17 had a passing resemblance to the American F86 and the new F4 fighters, and it was hoped that any ground observers might be confused or misled that their planes were American.

Rojas had flown over the area several times when there had been peace and he quickly located the Tamiami Canal leading from the Everglades to Miami. He clicked on his radio and the planes followed as he headed them in.

Moments later, the runways were in sight and, yes, they were lined with military transports and fighters, and there were few civilian planes near them. As planned, the planes broke into three pairs and began their runs. Only now did American anti-aircraft fire begin. It was too late. The MiGs strafed the neat lines of planes, their shells ripping into the fragile hulls. Explosions billowed into the sky and Rojas saw men running around in panic as they streaked by.

It only took a few seconds to use up their ammunition, and they dropped their bombs on what appeared to be fuel storage facilities. They were rewarded with a series of gigantic and fiery explosions.

Rojas ordered them to return to Cuba, only this time they would not go to Havana. So far it seemed to be off limits to American bombers, so the decision had been made to not tempt fate. They would land at a hastily built base farther east at Santa Clara where waiting crews would camouflage and hide their planes.

Rojas counted his planes. He had four left. The men he'd lost were among the best and they would be missed, but war caused casualties. He hoped that Castro was happy that they'd again humiliated the mighty United States.

When Rojas landed, he expected to be swarmed over by admiring mechanics and others not fortunate enough to fly planes. Instead, one soldier ran up as he started to climb down and receive their congratulations and simply yelled, "Run for your life!"

Rojas jumped to the ground and raced as quickly as he ever had for the thick woods nearby. A few minutes later, a jet screamed overhead and then others quickly followed. Bombs dropped and the field behind him erupted in explosions. What had happened was obvious. He'd been followed back to his so-called hidden base by a bunch of very pissed off Americans who'd either followed him visually or on radar. He sagged to the ground and lit a cigarette. His plane was now burning brightly and the Cuban Air Force, for all practical purposes, had ceased to exist. Still, he laughed, he had truly stuck it to the damned Americans. Better, he’d managed to survive.

John Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy, and Lyndon Johnson had been discussing matters in the Oval Office when word was flashed that Miami was under attack. Within minutes, a grainy black and white picture was being shown on television and Walter Cronkite was trying manfully to decipher what was going on from his base in New York. The three men in the Oval Office were aghast at the flames and smoke billowing from Miami's airport.

Another camera angle showed near panic in the streets as civilians rushed to get away from an unseen enemy. Another shot showed ambulances racing towards the airport. CBS was using their new portable Ikegami television cameras to record the event. JFK couldn’t help but wonder if portable television was going to be the new face of war.

A quick phone call from the Pentagon confirmed what they were seeing. A small force of Cuban planes had strafed and bombed the airport. An unknown number of Air Force personnel were dead or wounded and a large number of planes had been destroyed. Also, a major fuel storage area had been set on fire and was burning dramatically. On the positive side, if there was one JFK ruefully noted, civilian casualties were minimal if any.

The Pentagon aide also said that the Coast Guard Cutter Willow had been attacked by other enemy planes and had been severely damaged. Casualties on the ship were heavy.

"When was the last time the continental United States was bombed or shelled by an enemy?" Bobby asked.

"Not counting a few puny attempts by Japanese subs in World War II, not since the War of 1812," the president answered.

"This is an absolute disaster," said Johnson, "and I mean at many levels. The Republicans are going to kill us with this. If we don't do something, we might as well concede the 1964 election to Barry Goldwater right now. That son of a bitch is going to claim that we Democrats have lost another country, along with not being able to defend ourselves, and he might just be right."

JFK winced. The conservative senator from Arizona, and presumptive Republican presidential candidate, had called for a more immediate response to what he considered outrages by an enemy and alluding to incompetence by the very young Democratic president. A call from the president had informed him as to the reasons for not bombing Havana and, so far, he had bought on to them. This, however, might change Goldwater’s mind.

Rightly or wrongly, the Republicans had been claiming for years that the Democrats were soft on Communism and had let the Reds gobble up country after country.

First was the "loss" of China that had occurred when Truman had been president just after World War II. It didn't matter that the loss was the result of Chiang Kai Shek's utterly corrupt Nationalist government now ensconced on Formosa and protected by American warships.

This was followed by the surprise attack on Korea in 1950 and the realization that the U.S. was utterly unprepared to defend her. The result had been a three year war that ending in a stalemate. Again, Harry Truman had been president. Hard-liners were furious that the war had not ended in an American victory. Some even called it America’s first defeat.

The aging but outspoken former commander of American forces in Korea, Douglas MacArthur, was again calling for an attack on the Chinese mainland after first annihilating the Cuban forces. Kennedy thought it ironic since he felt that the debacle in Korea had largely been MacArthur’s fault. It was his troops who were so totally unprepared in 1950 and it was the general who had disobeyed orders and caused a major defeat before the situation could be stabilized.

In 1961, the Soviets had built a wall separating their part of Europe from the west and the U.S. had done nothing about it.

Nor had the U.S. done anything when the Red Army had crushed a rebellion in Hungary, although that had occurred when Eisenhower, a Republican, had been in the White House.

Large NATO and Soviet armies now confronted each other in Germany, while American forces stared at North Koreans, and an American fleet protected Formosa, now Taiwan, from the Red Chinese.

Then came Castro's revolution in neighboring Cuba and his turning the country into a satellite of Moscow, all while Kennedy had been president. China was one thing, and so was Korea, but Cuba was next door, not halfway around the world. This had resulted in the Bay of Pigs fiasco, Kennedy's humiliating confrontation with Khrushchev in Moscow, and the grand finale, the Cuban Missile Crisis that was supposed to have shown the world Kennedy's bravery under stress. Instead, Kennedy was now confronting a new and potentially disastrous war.

To further complicate matters, he was also being urged to send more troops to protect a sympathetic government in Vietnam, a country he was convinced most of America's citizens couldn't locate on a map at gunpoint. Where would it ever stop, he wondered.

The war with Cuba was also a war he could not afford to lose if he had any thoughts of being a two term president.

JFK shook his head. "I will go on the air and apologize for the failure to protect Miami. I will take responsibility because it is my responsibility. However, we will not change our strategy. We will not attack Havana or anyplace where Soviet troops might be just out of spite or revenge. That is just far too dangerous. We have been provoked and insulted by the Cubans, and they wish us to rise to the bait and do something foolish. We will not do that."

Johnson scoffed. "Goldwater's gonna take you apart if something good doesn't happen and damn soon."